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LIBRARY 

III'. 

UNIVERSITY   OF  CALIFORNIA 

Received .._....,  .^...r^rf^l'^y^Vty     /  SsS*- 
Ac cessions  N^o 


.3/^y3       S/ie(f  No.  -    ^V^^ 


4e 


'o^¥5 


THE    POEMS 


WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED 


RKVISKD  AND  COMPLETE  EDITION 


WITH     A     MKMOIR 


BY   THK    REV.    DKRWENT   COLKRIDGE 


TWO    VOLUMES   IN   ONE 


NEW  YORK 
WHITK,    STOKES,    &    ALLKN 

1885 

^•*^   OP"  THR 

fTJHIVERSITY] 


'^ilFO 


B.' 


3'^ 


75 


3/ ^^3 


TO 

THE    MEMORY 
or 


HELEN   PEAED, 


THIS    COLLECTION    OP 


HER    LAMENTED     HUSBAND'S     POEMS, 


PUBLISHED   IN   TULFILMENT   OP 


HER   LONO-CHERISHED   WISH  AND   INTENTION, 


IS    Al-PBCTIONATKLY   IN801UBED 


UEE  DAUaHTERS. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOL.    I 


PAQB 
AUTERTISEMENT    .........  7 

Memoib 9 


TALES. 

Lillian.    Cakto  1 63 

"  Canto  II 74 

Gog     Canto  I &3 

"       (Janto  II 9-^ 

The  Tr.ouuADouB.    Canto  I Id'j 

"  "  Canto  II 136 

"  "  Canto  III 101 

The  Lfqend  op  the  Haunted  Trek      .        .        .        .110 

The  Legend  of  the  Dracuenfei.s 195 

The  Bridal  of  Bel.mont 20C 

The  Legend  of  the  Tbufel  Uaus 281 

The  Kfd  Fisherman 242 

POEMS   OF  LOVE   AND   FANCY. 

LiDiAN's  Lo\'k 255 

Mr  First  Folly 271 

A  Shooting  Star 272 . 

Stanzas  Written  for  a  Friend 274 

L'Incosnue 275 

Peace  he  Thine 277 


2  CONTENTS. 

PAOI 

To  .    I.  "  We  met  but  in  one  oiddt  D  ance"  .        .  2TS 

"         IL  "As  o'ek  the  Deep  tiib  Seaman  roves"'      2S0 
"      III.  "O  Lady,  whek  I  mutely  gaze"        .        .  23-3 

The  Pobtrait     .  2S6 

To  .  "Stit-l  is  the  Earth,  ami  sIILL  the  Sky"      .  2S7 

"        "In    such  a  TiiiE   AS   this,  when   eveey 

Heaet  is  Light" 290 

The  Parting 293 

The  Last 297 

A  Fakewbll 299 

An  Excuse 303 

Second  Love 304 

A  Keteospect 306 

A  Ballad:  Teacujng  how  Poetey  is  best  paid  for    .  309 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Stanzas  written  in  the  first  Leaf  of  Lillian  .  319 
Stanzas  sent  in  exchange  for  Two  Drawings  .  .  321 
Fragments  op  a  Descriptive  Poem       ....      823 

A  Preface 326 

Love  at  a  Rout 829  x 

The  Modern  Nectar 332 

My  Own  Funeral 335 

Time's  Song 837 

From  Metastasio 833 

Lines  Writtp.n  on  the  Eve  of  a  College  Examina- 
tion          339 

Alexander  and  Diogenes 844 

"Arminiub 347 

Kemembee  Me •      851 

To  the  Rev.  Derwent  (;oleridge 852 

From  Goethe 358 

Memory 354 

FuiMus 356 

Lady  C 's  Thanks 857 

Childhood  and  ms  Visitors 853 

Childhood's  Criticism  ....  .       .       .  8C1 


CONTENTS.  3 

PAoa 
Beauty  and  her  Visitoks 864 

How   AM    I   LIKE   UER? 86T 

My  Little  Cousins 869 

On  an  Infant  Nephew 871 

Lines 873 

A  Fragment  375 

Hope  and  Love 376 

SELwouTiiy 3(9 

Cassandra 881 

SiK  Nicholas  at  Marston  Moou 8S5 

The  Covenanter's  Lament  for  Bothwell  Brigg  .  3S9 
King's  College  Chapel,  Cambridge  ....  392 
■\Vritten  in  a  blank  page  of  "The  Keepsake"        .      S93 

Anticipation S94 

Lady  JIybtle's  "Boccaccio" 896 

Qfern  Adelaide 400 

Hesse  Homburg 402 

Lord  Mayo 403 

Beested  Lodge 404 

lATiN  Hymn  to  the  Vine  in 406 

The  Sabbath 407 

The  Newly-Wedded 409  ■- 

To  Helen,  with  Keble's  "Christian  Year"      .        .      410 

July  7tu,  1S36 412 

Sketch  of  a  Young  Lady  Five  Months  Old    .        .      413 

Sonnet  to  R.  C.  Hildyard 415 

Sonnet  to  B.  J.  M.  P 416 

To  Helen,  with  Ckabbe's  Poems 417 

To  Helen,  July  7th,  1S37 418 

Sonnet  written  in  Lockhap.t's  "  Life  of  Scott"  .        .  419 

Verses  written  in  a  Child's  Book      ....      420 

To  Helen,  with  a  small  Candlestick    ....  421 

"  with  Southey's  Poems,  July  Tth,  18SS    .      421 

The  Home  of  ms  Childhood 422 

To  Helen,  with  a  Diary 424 

July  7th,  1839 425 


ADVEETISEMENT. 


The  Poems  of  Winthrop  Mackworth  Praed 
were  prepared  for  publication  after  his  decease  by 
iiis  widow,  and  were  to  have  been  carried  through 
the  press,  at  her  request,  by  the  Rev.  Derwent  Cole- 
ridge, to  whom  the  publication  of  an  introductory 
Memoir  was  also  intrusted.  By  her  death  tlie  prose- 
cution of  this  undertaking  has  devolved  upon  her 
daughters,  under  whose  direction  the  present  col- 
lected edition  is  now,  in  accordance  with  their 
lamented  mother's  design,  presented  to  the  public. 

Their  acknowledgments  are  gratefully  offered  to 
the  many  kind  friends  by  whose  contributions  and 
suggestions  the  work  has  from  time  to  time  been 
assisted. 

To  Lady  Young,  the  author's  sister,  the  collection 
is  indebted  for  many  interesting  pieces  in  her  pos- 
session. These  are  cliiefly  of  early  date,  and  are  now 
published  for  the  first  time.  She  has  added  to  the 
obhgation  by  placing  in  the  hands  of  the  compiler  of 
the  Memoir  a  number  of  Mr.  Praed's  letters,  and  has 
malerially  contributed,  by  her  recollections  of  his 
early  life,  to  the  interest  and  accuracy  of  the  record. 

The  Rev.  John  Moultrie,  the  Rev.  B.  H.  Kennedy, 
D.D.,  the  Rev.  C.  H.  Hartshorne,  Charles  Knight, 
Esq.,  with  other  of  Mr.  Praed's  valued  friends,  have 
also  furnished  important  aid ;  and  with  these  must 


8  ADVERTISEMENT. 

be  named  the  late  Rev.  E.  C.  Hawtrey,  D.  D.,  the  late 
Kobert  Hildyard,  Esq.,  Q.  C,  and  the  late  Alaric 
Watts,  Esq. 

More  recently,  the  editor  of  the  last  American 
edition  of  Mr.Praed's  Poems  has  shown  the  interest 
which  he  continues  to  take  in  the  subject — an  in- 
terest largely  shared  by  a  numerous  body  of  his 
countrymen — by  his  kind  and  valuable  communi- 
catioiis. 

It  only  remains  to  add  that,  in  bringing  out  these 
Poems,  the  Rev.  Derwent  Coleridge  has  liad  tlie  as- 
sistance and  co-operation  of  Sir  George  Young,  Bart., 
the  author's  nephev*^,  who  has  carefully  verified  the 
text  of  the  Poems,  collating  them  with  the  author's 
manuscript  copies,  from  which  many  important  cor- 
rections, and  several  large  additions,  have  been  de- 
rived, and  to  whom  is  due  tlie  arrangement  adopted 
in  the  present  edition. 


MEMOIR 


The  literary  productions  of  Wintubop  Mackworth 
Praed,  though  given  to  the  world  many  years  ago, 
in  publications  more  or  less  of  an  ephemeral  charac- 
ter, continue  to  excite  considerable  interest.  Of  tho 
Poems,  three  separate  collections  have  appeared  in 
America,  neither  of  them  complete  or  accurate,  yet 
reflecting  credit  on  the  taste  and  enterprise  of  our 
trans-Atlantic  brethren.  In  this  country,  an  authorized 
edition  has  for  some  time  been  announced,  not  before 
it  had  been  long  expected  and  desired.  The  delay 
has  been  occasioned  by  no  want  of  zeal  on  the  part 
of  those  more  immediately  concerned  in  the  under- 
taking, who  may  rather  be  charged  with  too  anxious 
a  sense  of  duty,  than  with  any  indifference  of  feeling. 
Though  well  aware  that  there  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs 
of  books,  no  less  than  of  men,  and  that  a  debt  is  due 
to  the  generation  which  is  passing  away  for  which 
the  next  can  give  no  acquittance,  they  have  been 
willing  to  forego  the  advantage  of  a  timely  appear- 
ance, and  even  to  be  held  defaulters  in  a  matter  of 
admitted  obligation,  rather  than  bring  out  what 
seemed  to  them  an  imperfect  work,  or  do  less  than 
justice  to  liim  whose  memory  as  a  man,  no  less  than 
an  author,  it  is  intended  to  preserve. 

The    life   of   an  individual   may  be  written   for 


10  MEMOIR. 

various  reasons,  and  the  undertaking  in  each  case  be 
fairly  justified.  He  may  have  been  suificiently  dis- 
tinguished in  the  world  whether  of  thought  or  action, 
in  literature  or  in  public  life,  to  draw  the  eyes  of  men 
to  his  private  fortunes  and  character, — what  he  has 
done  leading  them  to  inquire  what  he  was  ;  or  there 
may  have  been  something  in  the  man  himself,  some 
rare  excellence,  or  strange  peculiarity,  which  may 
impart  a  special  interest  to  his  portraiture  ;  or,  lastly, 
by  a  certain  felicity  of  nature,  aided  perhaps  by  an 
advantageous  position,  he  may  have  drawn  around 
him  so  large  a  circle  of  admiring  friends,  that  the 
ordinary  monuments  of  regret  and  affection  have 
been  deemed  inadequate.  Thus  the  pen  has  been 
called  in  to  make  up  the  deficiencies  of  the  statuary 
and  the  painter.  Each  of  these  motives  might 
readily  be  illustrated  by  appropriate  examples,  but 
they  more  commonly  act  in  combination ;  and  so  it 
is  in  the  present  instance.  If  one  should  be  deemed 
weak  and  insufficient,  it  may  yet  add  strength  to  the 
plea  which  it  cannot  support  alone.  Not  unknown, 
nor  without  mark  in  the  arena  of  political  conflict, 
the  name  of  Praed  is  stiU  remembered  as  at  least 
that  of  a  forward  pupil  in  the  school  of  statesman- 
ship; and  though  his  literary  honours,  won  in  earli- 
est manhood,  and  sustained  by  the  casual  produc- 
tions of  a  leisure  hour,  were  worn  carelessly,  while 
he  was  preparing  for  higher  distinctions  and  more 
serious  duties,  yet  now  that  years  have  gone  by,  and 
we  have  to  audit  the  past  with  no  expectation  of  any 
future  account,  we  find  that  he  has  left  beliiud  him  a 


MEMOIK.  1 1 

permanent  expression  of  wit  and  grace,  of  refined 
and  tender  feeling,  of  inventive  fancy  and  acute  ob- 
servation, unique  in  character,  and  his  own  by  an 
undisputed  title.  Some  brief  record,  if  not  tf  the 
rising  orator  and  politician,  yet  of  the  accomplished 
poet  and  sparkling  essayist,  may  surely  accompany 
liis  writings,  and  join  in  whatever  welcome  they 
may  receive.  Such  at  least  may  be  taken  as  tho 
pretext  and  occasion  of  the  following  biography :  but 
it  need  not  be  concealed  that  tho  work  has  been 
undertaken  from  feelings  of  a  more  personal  nature, 
and  with  somewhat  of  a  higher  aim.  So  marked  and 
individual  a  character,  so  full  both  in  its  moral  and 
intellectual  endowments,  so  tine  in  modification,  so 
peculiar  in  the  interchange  and  play  of  light  and 
shade,  if  happUy  depicted,  might,  it  was  thought,  be 
studied  with  pleasure  and  advantage  on  its  own  ac- 
count. And  if  this  language  be  criticised  as  the 
heightened  utterance  of  partial  friendship,  it  will  yet 
be  repeated  by  many  voices.  To  his  contemporaries, 
to  all  by  whom  he  was  intimately  known,  to  very 
many  who  knew  liim  mainly  by  report,  and  who 
perhaps  cherish  the  remembrance  of  a  casual  meet- 
ing, the  name  of  "Winthrop  Puaed  is  still  as  the 
sound  of  music.  The  depths  of  his  nature  were 
indeed  opened  but  to  few ;  not  often  or  willingly  to 
them:  but  he  had  a  special  faculty  and  privilege, 
better  than  any  craft  of  wUl,  by  which  he  attracted 
even  when  he  seemed  to  repel, — and  was  more  than 
popular  even  when  in  his  younger  and  gayer  days  he 
appeared  to  court  animadversion,  and  defy  di.?like. 


12  MEMOIR. 

WiNTHEOP  Mackworth  Praed,  the  subject  of  the 
present  Memoir,  was  the  third  and  youngest  son  of 
William  Mackworth  Praed,  Sergeant-at-law,  and  for 
many  years  chairman  of  the  Audit  Board.  He  was 
born  in  London,  in  the  house  then  occupied  by  his 
father,  35  John  Street,  Bedford  Row,  on  the  26th  of 
July,  1802.  Bitton  House,  at  Teigumouth,  in  the 
county  of  Devon,  his  father's  country  seat,  is  how- 
ever to  be  regarded  as  his  paternal  home.  He  was 
called  Winthrop  from  the  maiden  name  of  his 
mother,  a  branch  of  whose  family  emigrated  to 
America,  and  rose  to  eminence  in  the  time  of  Charles 
the  First;  and  Mackworth  from  his  father,  whose 
family  originally  bore  that  name,  but  had  taken  the 
name  of  Praed  some  generations  earher.  His  con- 
stitution was  delicate,  and  when  about  six  years  of 
age  he  passed  through  a  severe  illness,  which 
threatened  his  hfe.  On  this  occasion  a  copy  of  verses 
was  written  in  his  name  by  his  father,  a  man  of 
highly-cultivated  mind,  by  whom  the  poetic  faculty 
which  early  developed  itself  in  his  youngest  son  was 
carefully  fostered  and  directed.  As  these  verses,  in 
addition  to  their  intrinsic  merit,  have  a  biographical 
interest,  they  are  here  preserved : — 

AUGUST,  1S08. 

I.llTI.E    WINTHEOP'B    meditation    ON    UI8    BECOTEKV    FKOM    A 
DANGEROUS    ILLNESS. 

To  Thee,  Almighty  God  1  -vvho  from  the  bed 

Of  sickness  hast  vouchsafed  to  raise  me  up 

To  health  and  strength  renewed,  with  grateful  heart 

I  offer  up  tny  praises  and  thanksgivings, 


MEMOIR.  13 

And  I  beseech  Thee  that  tny  life  prosorved 
May  through  Thy  grace  be  constantly  employed 
In  goodly  works,  and  keeping  Thy  cornmundmentsl 

You  next,  my  dearest  mother,  I  approach 
With  thankfulness  and  joy  1     You  gave  me  birth, 
You  fostered  me  in  infancy,  and  taught 
My  dawning  mind  to  seek  our  heavenly  Father, 
To  trust  in  Him,  to  love  and  to  adore  Hira. 
You  through  my  lingering  illness  wakeful  sat, 
The  tedious  nights  beside  me,  while  your  voice. 
Sweeter  than  Zephyr's  breath,  soothed  my  comiilaints, 
Assuaged  my  pains,  and  lulled  me  to  repose. 
Whate'er  of  medicine  passed  my  feverish  lips, 
What  little  food  my  stomach  would  admit. 
Your  hand  administered.     Oh  1  if  at  times 
I  answered  crossly,  or  in  froward  mood 
Seemed  to  reject  the  help  you  fondly  tendered. 
Impute,  to  the  disorder  all  the  blarae, 
And  do  not  think  your  darling  was  ungrateful 
Not  for  the  riches  of  the  East,  the  power 
Of  mightiest  emperors,  nor  all  the  fame 
Conquest  bestows  on  warriors  most  renowned. 
Would  I  offend  you— kindest,  best  of  mothers  I 
May  all  your  days  be  blest  with  many  comforts. 
The  last  of  them  far  distant!  and  the  close. 
When  it  shall  come,  be  smoothed  by  resignittion, 
And  welcomed  by  the  hope  of  bliss  eternal  1 

That  the  child  should  have  been  made  thus  early 
to  express  the  tender  and  solemn  thoughts  and 
feelings  here  imputed  to  him  in  the  language  of 
poetry,  may  perhaps  have  been  no  more  than  u 
striking  coincidence ;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
his  poetic  faculty,  in  w'hatever  degree  it  may  have 
been  inherited,  was  recognized  at  a  very  early  period, 
and  that  it  was  developed  under  very  favourable 
Vol.   I. -2 


14  MEMOIR. 

influences  His  home  education  was,  indeed,  of  tho 
best  kind  in  all  respects.  Ample  evidence  of  this  is 
afforded  by  his  letters  written  from  school  at  a  very 
early  age,  and  which  not  merely  record  an  amount 
of  attainment  considerably  beyond  his  years,  but 
which  exhibit  a  clearness  and  accuracy,  both  of 
thought  and  language,  not  less  remarkable,  and  of 
far  surer  promise.  The  same  remark  applies  with 
stiU  greater  force  to  his  early  verses.  Indications  of 
wit  and  fancy,  afterwards  so  conspicuous  in  his 
writings,  are  not  wanting;  but  the  qualities  by  which 
they  are  most  favourably  distinguished  are  distinct- 
ness of  thought  and  accuracy  of  expression.  The 
metrical  construction  is  always  perfect;  and  if 
these  fundamental  excellences  be  due  in  the  first 
instance  to  the  character  of  his  own  mind,  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  they  were  brought  out  and  strength- 
ened by  his  father's  strict  and  judicious  criticism. 
He  never  spared  tlie  pruuing-knife,  preferring  that 
the  literary  exercises  of  a  boy  should  be  stiff  and 
formal,  rather  than  loose  and  careless.  He  required 
plain  sense  plainly  spoken,  and  would  tolerate  no 
extravagances.     But  to  return. 

The  prayer  whicl'  the  child  was  made  to  utter  in 
his  father's  verses,  "  that  the  last  of  his  mother's 
days  might  be  far  distant,"  was  not  granted.  She 
died  about  a  year  afterwards,  too  soon  for  the  loss  to 
be  severely  felt  by  the  younger  children.  It  can, 
however,  scarcely  be  doubted  that  the  remembrance 
of  his  own  loss  was  present  to  the  mind  of  the 
poet,  and   acted  as  a  stimulus   to   his   imagination 


MEMOIR.  15 

on  more  than  one  occasion.  The  readers  of  "  The 
Troubadour"  will  remember,  in  this  connection,  the 
beautiful  passage — 

"My  mother's  grave,  my  mother's  grave,"  &c.  (See  p.  115.) 

Her  place  was,  indeed,  well  supplied  by  the  care 
of  an  elder  sister,  under  whoso  superintendence 
his  education  was  carried  on  at  home  till  he 
had  completed  liis  eightii  year,  when  he  was 
sent,  in  1810,  to  Langley  Broom  School,  near 
Colubrook,  where  he  remained  under  the  care  of 
Mr.  Atkins,  the  gentleman  by  whom  it  was  then 
conducted,  about  four  years.  Such  a  boy  could 
hardly  fail  to  engage  the  particular  attention  of  his 
master;  and  it  appears  that  he  made  considerable 
progress  under  the  teaching  which  he  there  received, 
however  much  may  be  ascribed  to  his  own  talent 
and  the  careful  preparation  which  he  had  received  at 
home.  His  vacations,  moreover,  were  put  to  full 
account,  not  only  in  the  way  of  rest  and  recreation, 
but  of  mental  culture.  His  physical  powers  were 
not  strong,  and  he  was  thus  led  to  prefer  the 
amusement  and  quiet  employments  of  which  he 
could  partake  in-doors  to  more  vigorous  and  active 
sports.  He  delighted  in  reading  of  a  more  profit- 
able kind  than  is  common  with  young  people, 
Plutarch's  Lives  being  one  of  his  chief  favourites: 
Shakspeare  he  would  read  aloud  to  his  sisters. 
Young  as  he  was,  he  already  took  much  pleasure 
in  cliess,  of  which  he  continued  fond  during  the 
whole  of  liis  life,  and   soon   became   a  very  good 


16  MEMOIR. 

player.  He  also  amused  himself  with  the  composi- 
tion of  short  dramas,  too  unripe,  as  may  well  be 
supposed,  for  publication,  but  in  which  he  already- 
displayed  that  talent  for  drollery  which  he  after- 
wards exhibited  in  so  elegant  and  refined  a  form. 

From  Langley  Broom  School  he  was  sent  to  Eton, 
where  his  father  had  been  educated,  and  where  he  had 
been  preceded  by  his  eldest  brother,  William  Mack- 
worth.  This  important  event  took  place  on  the  28th  of 
March,  1814,  before  he  had  completed  his  twelfth  year. 

Of  the  feelings  with  which  he  found  himself 
denizened  among  the  inhabitants  of  this  new  world 
— new  and  strange  to  him,  and  he  for  a  while,  it 
would  appear,  strange  to  them — we  have  no  distinct 
record.  His  countenance  at  this  time,  as  remem- 
bered by  one  of  his  surviving  schoolfellows,  was 
grave,  his  complexion  pale,  and  his  person  slight. 
His  appearance  and  manners,  eventually  so  attrac- 
tive, were  already  marked  and  peculiar.  A  studious 
and  retiring  boy,  of  delicate  bodQy  frame,  he  was 
neither  inclined,  nor  from  want  of  physical  power 
enabled,  to  enter  warmly  or  vigorously  into  active 
sports.  His  intellectual  superiority  was,  however, 
speedily  recognized,  and  received  the  fullest  and 
most  appropriate  encouragement. 

He  was  placed  under  the  charge  of  the  late  Eev. 
J.  F.  Plumptre,  then  one  of  the  Assistant  Masters, 
afterwards  one  of  the  Fellows,  of  Eton  College,  to 
whose  personal  kindness  and  careful  tuition  he  was 
under  deep  obligation.  His  first  debt  of  gratitude 
was,  however,  due  to  his  elder  brother,  who  for  some 


MEMOm. 


17 


time  directed  his  studies  with  a  care  and  ability 
of  which  he  was  duly  sensible.  His  progress  was 
rapid,  and  in  httle  more  than  a  year  he  was  "  sent 
up  for  good,"  as  it  is  termed,  for  a  copy  of  Latin 
lyrics,  the  first  of  a  series  of  similar  distmctions, 
numerous  beyond  all  previous  example. 

Meanwhile  his  poetic  faculty  was  exercised  not 
alone  in  the  usual  routine  of  school  exercises, 
distinguished  in  his  case  by  a  sparkhng  vein  of 
thought  more  than  commonly  original  and  charac- 
teristic. Poetry,  in  his  mother-tongue,  was  his 
recreation.  His  ready  pen  sported  with  equal  ease 
whether  in  verse  or  prose  composition. 

It  has  been  said  that  his  poetic  faculty  was  care- 
fuUy  watched  and  cultivated  at  home :  the  same 
advantage  attended  him  at  school.  His  tutor,  Mr. 
Plumptre,  made  it  a  practice  to  train  such  of  his 
pupils,  as  sliowed  any  talent  in  that  direction,  in 
the  composition  of  English  verse,  ofiering  prizes  for 
voluntary  competition  on  given  subjects.  Five  or 
sii  poems,  some  of  considerable  length,  attest  the 
ardour  with  which  Praed  entered  into  these  contests. 
Together  with  the  present  Lord  Carlisle,  he  carried 
off  most  of  the  honours ;  and,  besides  the  encourage- 
ment thus  given,  his  style,  in  all  probability,  ac- 
quired much  of  its  classical  elegance  and  remarkable 
facility,  as  well  from  the  practice  thus  afforded,  as 
by  the  judicious  criticism  to  which  his  pieces  were 
subjected.  Some  of  these  exercises,  with  other  early 
"buds  of  promise,"  dating  from  the  fourteenth  year 
of  his  age,  have  been  printed  in  the  following  collec- 


18  MEMOIR. 

tion.  However  immature,  they  will,  it  is  believed, 
be  read  with  pleasure,  if  only  as  throwing  light 
upon  the  formation  of  the  author's  mind. 

It  was  not  long  before  his  productions  were  to 
be  submitted  to  a  wider  public.  In  the  year  1819 
there  appeared  in  print  a  selection  from  the  pages 
of  two  school  periodicals,  "  The  College  Magazine," 
and  "  Horce  Otiosai,"*  which  had  previously  been 
circulated  in  manuscript,  and  had  obtained  considera- 
ble celebrity  among  the  Etonians  of  that  day,  but  to 
which  Praed,  being  somewhat  junior  to  the  princi- 
pal writers,  had  contributed  nothing.  Some  time 
after  the  discontinuance  of  these  miscellanies  in  the 
year  1820,  Praed  set  on  foot  the  "  Apis  Matina,"  a 
manuscript  journal,  conducted  with  at  least  equal 
ability,  of  which  one  copy  only  is  known  to  have 
been  preserved  entire,  but  in  which  several  pieces, 
afterwards  printed  in  the  "Etonian,"  originally 
appeared.  It  was  in  copying  out  the  pages  of  the 
"  Apis  Matina"f  for  circulation  that  Praed  acquired 

♦The  writers  in  the  "College  Magazine"  and  "Horie 
Otiosje"  were  Howard,  now  Lord  Carlisle,  H.  N.  Coleridge,  W. 
Sidney  Walker,  Moultrie,  Curzon,  Necch,  Trower,  and  0.  H. 
Townsheud,  all  of  whom,  except  Howard,  afterwards  con- 
tributed to  the  ''Etonian.'' 

t  The  "  Apis  Matina"  consisted  of  six  numhers,  written  in 
the  months  of  April,  May,  June,  and  July,  1S20.  The  princi- 
pal contributors,  after  Praed,  who  wrote  about  half  of  it,  were 
Trower  (now  Bishop  of  Gibraltar)  and  F.  Curzon.  The  latter 
left  Eton  at  Election,  1820.  The  following  pieces,  aflenvarda 
printed  in  the  "  Etonian,"  first  appeared  in  the  "  Apis  Matina," 
The  lines  "To  Julio,"  "To  Julia,"  "To  Florence,"  "Laura," 
and    "The    Invocation    to    the    Deities,"    by    Praed.    "The 


MEMOIR.  19 

his  peculiar  handwriting,  of  which  Mr.  Charles 
Knight,  in  his  "Autobiography  of  a  "Working-Man," 
observes,  "  It  was  the  most  perfect  calligraphy  I 
ever  beheld.  No  printer  could  mistake  a  word  or  a 
letter.  It  was  not  what  is  called  a  running  hand,  yet 
was  written  with  rapidity,  as  I  have  witnessed." 
Though  in  the  strictest  sense  a  voluntary  enterprise 
on  the  part  of  the  boys,  yet  their  performances 
were  not  regarded  without  interest  by  the  musters. 
The  Rev.  E.  C.  Hawtrey — then  an  Assistant — after- 
wards Head  Master,  and  eventually  Provost  of  Eton 
— to  whom  Praed  was  indebted  for  many  personal 
attentions,  the  more  gratifying  as  he  had  no  special 
connection  with  him  in  the  school,  addressed  a  letter 
of  advice  to  him  on  the  occasion  of  this  his  first 
effort  at  editorsliip,  which  was  inserted  in  the  second 
number.  This  pleasant  relation  continued  during 
the  whole  of  his  school  life,  and  ripened  into  a 
lasting  friendship.* 

The  "Apis  Matina"  was  immediately  succeeded  by 
the  "  Etonian."  It  is  upon  his  contributions  to  the 
latter  periodical  that  the  brilliancy  of  Praed's  early 
reputation  was  founded,  and  by  which  it  is  still  main- 
Temple  of  Diana  at  Ephesus,"  and  "The  Lapland  Sacrifice," 
by  Curzon.  "Eciith,"  "Genius,"  by  Trower.  The  rest  of 
Praed's  poetical  pieces,  and  nearly  all  his  prose,  were  of  a 
satirical  cast,  very  amusing,  but  not  suited  for  republication. 

*  It  was  at  Dr.  Hawtroy's  request  that  the  paper  in  the 
"  Etonian."  vol.  ii.  p.  74,  on  the  death  of  a  schoolfellow,  was 
written.  He  had  himself  written  some  elegant  Latin  lines  on 
the  same  subje'»t,  which  were  translated  by  Praed.  See  vot 
ii.  p.  2fi?. 


20  MEMOIR. 

tained.  The  first  number  of  this  work  was  printed 
and  published  in  October,  ]820,  from  which  time  it 
continued  to  appear  monthly  till  July,  1821,  when, 
upon  Praed'g  leaving  Eton,  it  was  brought  to  a 
close. 

Of  this  publication  Praed,  together  with  his  friend 
Walter  Blunt,  was  the  projector  and  editor,  and  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  it  was  he  whose  genius  im- 
pressed upon  it  its  distinctive  character,  and  chiefly 
contributed  to  obtain  for  it  the  reputation  which  it 
still  retains  above  all  other  juvenile  periodicals.  It 
has  been  questioned  in  what  sense  this  term  is  to  be 
understood,  and  whether  this  miscellany  is  to  be  at- 
tributed in  main  part  to  the  School  or  to  the  Univer- 
sity. Certainly  in  main  part  to  the  School.  The 
publication  was  indeed  arranged  in  concert  with  a 
few  undergraduates  who  had  recently  left  Eton, 
young  men  already  of  high  mark,  whose  contributions 
were  of  distinguished  excellence.*     These,  however. 


*  Among  the  contributors  appear  the  names  of  Henry  Nelson 
Coleridge,  William  Sidney  Walker,  John  Moultrie,  and  John 
Louis  Petit,  to  -which  that  of  Chauncey  Hare  Townshend,  omit- 
ted in  the  printed  list  ("  Etonian,"'  vol.  ii.  p.  4S3),  and  who 
wrote  the  sonnet  to  "  Ada,"  which  is  there  attributed  to  Praed, 
ought  to  have  tieen  added;  aU  of  whom  have  become  known 
in  the  world  of  letters.  The  only  name  in  the  list  supplied  by 
Oxford,  is  that  of  Henry  Neech.  Of  the  youthful  aspirants  thua 
early  associated  with  Praed  in  the  career  of  literary  enterprise, 
the  two  first-named  belong  with  him  to  the  past.  The  Hon. 
William  Ashley,  Edmund  Beales,  William  Chrichton,  tlie  Hon. 
Francis  Curzon,  Richard  Durnford,  William  Henry  Ord,  Thomas 
Powys  Outram,  and  Walter  Trower,  who,  with  others,  coutribu- 


MEMOIK.  21 

in  the  aggregate,  hardly  exceeded  one-fourth  part  of 
each  number.  The  remainder  was  the  work  of  actual 
schoolboys,  by  far  the  largest  portion  being  due  to 
Praed  himself.  His  was  the  guiding  spirit,  and  as 
his  productions  exceeded  those  of  his  associates, 
whether  in  the  School  or  at  the  University,  in  quan- 
tit}',  so  they  rankedeamong  the  very  best  in  quality. 

The  work  is  agreeably  characterized  by  the  buoy- 
ancy of  youthful  spirits,  the  grave  portions  being 
upon  the  whole  of  considerably  less  value  than  the 
gay.  The  writers,  while  they  give  themselves  out 
as  boys,  appear  throughout  under  feigned  names, 
the  whole  being  wrought  up  into  a  sort  of  drama. 
The  leading  articles,  in  which  the  plot  or  action,  if  it 
may  be  so  called,  is  carried  on,  bore  tlie  title  of  the 
King  of  Clubs.  These,  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
pages  here  and  there,  in  which  the  principal  dramatis 
personse  are  severally  introduced,  were  uniformly 
written  by  Praed,  sometimes  in  prose,  sometimes  in 
verse,  which  presented  no  obstacle  to  the  rapid  flow 
of  his  thoughts.  It  has  indeed  been  said  that  his 
talent  exhibited  itself  to  most  advantage  in  the  latter 
form ;  and  perhaps  his  early  prose  compositions  have 
been  imduly  depreciated  by  the  comparison.  That 
they  should  not  possess  the  same  permanent  interest 
as  his  poems,  is  no  more  than  was  to  be  expected. 
Many  of  his  prose  articles,  more  particularly  his  "lead- 
ted  to  the  "  Etonian,"  were  still  at  schooL  Among  the  anony- 
mous contributora  were  R.  Streatfleld,  and  J.  A.  Kinglake — 

"  Dear  to  poetry, 
And  dearer  to  hia  friends."— Si(r?j  Hall. 


22  MEMOIR. 

cif:;,"  are  of  an  occasional  cliaracter,  and  the  fashion 
of  this  kind  of  writing  passes  away;  but  there  is  Uttle 
or  no  inferiority  in  point  of  power.  He  displays  the 
same  facility  of  expression,  the  same  lively  observa- 
tion, and  very  much  of  the  same  wit  and  fancy, 
whether  he  writes  in  prose  or  verse. 

The  possessors  of  the  "  Etonian"  are  referred  to 
the  articles  "Old  Boots,"  " Eeminiscences  of  my 
Youth,"  "Yes  and  No,"  "Lovers'  Vows,"  "The 
Knight  and  the  Knave,"  "On  the  Poems  of  Ho- 
mer,"—  compositions  as  various  in  style  and  subject, 
as  they  are  finished  in  execution,  and  surely  display- 
ing far  more  of  the  spirit  and  vigour,  than  of  the  im- 
maturity of  youth. 

The  work  was  brought  out  by  Mr.  Charles  Knight, 
the  well-known  publisher,  himself  distinguished  by 
those  literary  talents  and  accomplishments  which  he 
has  subsequently  turned  to  such  valuable  account.  As 
the  testimony  of  a  contemporary,  personally  engaged 
in  the  transactions  recorded,  no  apology  is  needed  for 
here  introducing  the  following  extract  from  his  very 
.  interesting  "  Autobiography  of  a  Working-Man,"  to 
which  a  reference  has  already  been  made.  After 
speaking  of  the  manifest  dehght  taken  by  Mr.  Blunt, 
in  doing  what  he  calls  the  "  editorial  drudgery,''  he 
proceeds  to  say :  "  Mr.  Praed  came  to  the  prmtmg- 
ofiBce  less  frequently.  But  during  the  ten  months  of 
the  life  of  this  Miscellany — which  his  own  produc- 
tions were  chiefly  instrumental  in  raising  to  an  emi- 
nence never  before  attained  by  schoolboy  genius 
Bimilarly  exerted — I  was  more  and  more  astonished 


MEMOIR.  23 

by  the  unbounded  fertility  of  his  mind  and  the  readi- 
ness of  liid  resources.  He  wrote  under  the  signature 
of  'Peregrine  Courtenay,'  the  President  of  'The  King 
of  Clubs,'  by  whose  members  the  magazine  was  as- 
sumed to  be  conducted.  The  character  of  Peregrine 
Courtenay,  given  in  '  An  Account  of  the  Proceedings 
which  led  to  the  Publication  of  the  "Etonian,"  '  fur- 
nishes no  satisfactory  idea  of  the  youthful  Winthrop 
Mackworth  Praed,  when  he  is  desciibed  as  one  'pos- 
sessed of  sound  good  sense,  rather  than  of  brilliance 
of  genius.'  His  'general  acquirements  and  universal 
information'  are  fitly  recorded,  as  well  as  his  acquaint- 
ance with  '  the  world  at  large.'  But  the  kindness 
that  lurks  under  sarcasm;  the  wisdom  tliat  wears  the 
mask  of  fun ;  the  half-melancholy  that  is  veiled  by 
levity; — these  qualities  very  soon  struck  me  as  far 
out  of  the  ordinary  indications  of  precocious  talent. 

"It  is  not  easy  to  separate  my  recollections  of  the 
Praed  of  Eton  from  those  of  the  Praed  of  Cambridge. 
The  Etonian  of  1820  was  natural  and  unaffected  in 
his  ordhiary  talk ;  neither  shy  nor  presuming;  proud, 
without  a  tinge  of  vanity ;  somewhat  reserved,  but 
ever  courteous  ;  giving  few  indications  of  the  suscep- 
tibility of  the  poet,  but  ample  evidence  of  the  laugh- 
ing satirist ;  a  pale,  slight  youth,  who  had  looked  upon 
the  aspects  of  society  with  the  keen  perception  of  a 
clever  manhood ;  one  who  had,  moreover,  seen  in  hu- 
man life  something  more  than  follies  to  be  ridiculed  by 
the  gay  jest  or  scouted  by  the  sarcastic  sneer.  I  had 
many  opportunities  of  studying  his  complex  charac- 
ter.    His  writings  tlien,  especially  liis    poems,  occa- 


24  MEMOIR. 

Bionally  exhibited  that  remarkable  union  of  pathoa 
with  wit  and  humour  \rhich  attested  the  oiiginaUty  of 
his  genius,  as  it  was  subsequently  developed  in  ma- 
turer  efforts.  In  these  blended  qualities  a  superficial 
inquirer  might  conclude  that  he  was  an  imitator 
of  Hood.  But  Hood  had  written  nothing  that  indi- 
cated his  future  greatness,  when  Praed  was  pouring 
forth  verse  beneath  whose  gayety  and  quaintness 
might  be  traced  the  characteristics  which  his  friend 
Mr.  Moultrie  describes  as  the  peculiar  attributes  of 
his  nature — 

'  Drawing  off  Intrusive  eyes 
From  that  intensity  of  human  love 
And  that  most  deep  and  tender  sympathy 
Close  guarded  in  the  chambers  of  his  heart.' — 

ne  Dream  of  Life.^ 

This  record  of  a  schoolboy's  life,  rich  in  actual 
achievement  as  well  as  in  promise  for  the  future, 
would  be  incomplete  if  a  word  were  not  added  of  the 
part  he  took  in  those  recreations  which  form  no  un 
important  feature  of  a  schoolboy's  career. 

His  amusements  were  indeed  for  the  most  part  of 
an  intellectual  character.  As  a  chess-player  he  found 
no  equal  among  boys  of  his  own  age,  and  it  is  remem- 
bered that  he  was  selected,  when  comparatively 
young,  by  a  schoolfellow  in  the  upper  part  of  the 
school — the  celebrated  Dr.  Pusey — as  an  antagonist 
who  could  meet  him  on  equal  terms. 

In  school  theatricals,  then  in  high  vogue  at  Eton, 
he  was  a  distinguished  performer.  He  was  not, 
however,  altogether  a  stranger  to  more  active  sports 


MEMOIR.  25 

Though  from  the  delicacy  of  his  constitution  he  took 
no  part  in  the  leading  athletic  exercises  by  which 
Eton  has  always  been  distinguished,  yet  in  the  va- 
riety of  the  game  of  fives,  then  peculiar  to  that 
school,  an  exercise  in  which  the  dexterity  and  grace 
of  tlie  player  are  exhibited  to  much  advantage,  he 
was  unrivalled.  He  afterwards  became  an  excellent 
tennis-player.  He  was  also  fond  of  whist,  and  played 
very  well.  It  was  not  till  the  last  year  of  his  Eton 
life  that  he  entered  the  Debating  Society,  of  which  he 
at  once  became  a  distinguished  member. 

One  other  circumstance  remains  to  be  recorded  of 
which  he  was  justly  proud,  and  for  which,  to  employ 
the  language  of  the  valued  friend  by  whom  the 
information  has  been  communicated,  "the  thanks  of 
Etonians  are  no  less  due  than  for  the  brilliant  legacy 
of  '  The  Etonian'  itself."  By  his  efforts,  with  some 
assistance  from  the  masters  and  other  friends,  the 
"Boys'  Library"  was  founded  at  Eton.  This,  the 
first  institution  of  the  kind,  was  established  in  an 
upper  room  at  the  college  bookseller's,  as  a  society  to 
which  a  few  of  the  senior  boys  might  belong,  and  to 
which  they  might  present  an  occasional  volume  on 
leaving  or  on  revisiting  Eton,  to  testify  their  sympa- 
thy with  the  studies  of  their  successors.  Under  Dr. 
Hawtrcy's  superintendence,  and  aided  by  his  magnifi- 
cent liberality,  it  became  what  it  is,  the  sanctuary  of 
learning,  and  the  refuge  of  quiet  to  many  a  boy  for 
whom  a  public  school  would  else  afford  small  oppor- 
tunity of  satisfying  a  desire  for  knowledge,  beyond 
the   mere   routine  of  school-work.     If  Eton  has  no 


26  MEMOIR. 

longer  to  lament  the  injury  done  within  her  walls  tc 
the  organization  of  a  Shelley,  or  a  Sidney  Walker, 
ehe  owes  it  in  a  great  measure  to  the  public  library 
•which  was  founded  by  Praed.* 

The  summer  of  1821  terminated  Praed's  brilliant 
career  at  Eton,  and  in  the  October  of  the  same  year 
ho  commenced  his  residence  as  an  undergraduate  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  Since  the  days  of  Can- 
ning, no  Etonian  had  brought  with  him  so  high  a 
reputation,  and  large  expectations  were  formed  with 
respect  to  his  academical  career.  It  was  indeed  soon 
apparent  that  neither  his  time  nor  his  talents  would 
be  devoted  exclusively,  or  even  mainly,  to  the 
pursuit  of  university  distinction.  Hia  disposition 
was  eminently  social,  his  company  gladly  welcomed 
wherever  he  was  pleased  to  bestow  it,  whether  by 
his  immediate  contemporaries  or  by  men  of  higher 
standing.  In  a  word,  his  habits  were  by  no  means 
those  of  a  severe  or  regular  student,  while,  as  we 
shall  see  presently,  it  was  not  long  before  ho  found 
himself  literary  employment  foreign  to  his  academi- 
cal pursuits,  and  sufficient  of  itself  to  occupy  almost 
any  pen  but  his  own.  For  scientific  studies  he  had 
no  peculiar  liking  or  aptitude,  though  he  acquired 

*  At  the  back  of  one  of  the  stalls  in  Eton  Callejco  Chapol, 
erected  by  Mr.  W.  Mackworth  Praed,  as  a  fitting;  tribute  to  the 
memory  of  his  brother  in  that  place,  is  the  follomns:  inscrip- 
tion, from  the  pi  n  of  Dr.  llawtrey  : — 

"  Winthropo  Mi'.ekworth  Praed  olim  Coll.  SS.  Trin.  .apud  Can- 
tabrisiam  socio  iitcria  humanioribiis  senatorils  nuraeribns  et 
BjbliolheciB  iu  puerorum  Etonensiutn  frugem  inchoata,'  laudu 
felicissinid  ornato  pcsuit  fratcr  maximus  natu." 


MEMOIR.  27 

without  difficulty  the  modioura  of  mathematical 
knowledge  which  was  then  required  from  the  candi- 
date for  classical  honours. 

His  scholarship  was  pre-eminently  of  the  Etonian 
cast,  as  it  was  commonly  exhibited  at  that  day — 
elegant,  refined,  and  tasteful,  characterized  by  an 
unconscious,  and,  as  it  were,  living  sympathy  with 
the  graces  and  proprieties  of  diction,  rather  than  by 
a  minute  analysis  of  its  laws,  or  careful  collation  of 
its  facts.  It  must  be  understood,  however,  that  this 
IS  spoken  comparatively.  Though  his  scholarship 
was  distinguished  for  its  grace  and  finish  rather  than 
by  its  depth,  it  was  far  indeed  from  superficial,  and 
his  mastery  over  the  resources  of  the  classical  tongues, 
as  displayed  in  his  composition,  was  in  particular 
most  remarkable.  The  following  critical  remarks, 
for  which  the  compiler  of  this  Memoir  is  indebted  to 
a  friend,  are  so  much  to  the  point,  that  they  are 
given  in  his  own  words:  "  The  character  of  Praed's 
Latin  and  Greek  verse  is  peculiar.  It  is  the  exact 
translation  for  the  most  part  of  the  same  style  and 
diction  which  he  wielded  with  hardly  greater  ease  in 
his  native  language.  The  same  sparkling  antithesis, 
tiie  same  minute  elaboration  of  fancy,  whether 
employed  in  depicting  natural  or  mental  objects,  and 
the  same  ever-present  under-current  of  melancholy 
are  found  in  both.  Of  a  certain  kind  of  Greek, 
adapted  to  the  curious  production  called  at  Cam- 
bridge a  Sapphic  Ode,  and  of  a  certain  degree  of 
Latin  scholarship,  competent  to  express  all  the  ideas 
necessary  to  his  verse,  but  not  to  sound  the  depths 


28  MEMOIR. 

or  exhaust  the  capacities  of  the  language,  he  was 
master.  His  epigrams  are  perhaps  the  most  scholar- 
like of  his  productions  in  classic  verse ;  but  it  maj' 
be  said  of  them  all,  what  cannot  be  said  of  many 
such  exercises,  that  they  were  Greek  and  Latin 
poetry."* 

There  can  be  no  doubt,  indeed,  that  he  might  have 
attained  still  higher  distinction  as  a  scholar  by  a 
course  of  systematic  study,  for  he  showed  in  after- 
life both  the  power  of  thorough  investigation  and  a 
sense  of  its  value;  but  the  bent  of  his  genius,  and 
perhaps  the  state  of  his  bodily  health,  inclined  him 
to  more  discursive  occupation.  As  it  was,  though  ho 
failed  as  a  competitor  for  the  University  Scholar- 
ship, f  the  long  and  shining  list  of  his  academic 
honours  bore  full  testimony  not  merely  to  his  extraor- 
dinary talent,  but  to  the  high  character  of  his  scho- 
lastic attainments. 

In  1822  he  gained  Sir  William  Browne's  medal  for 
the  Greek  Ode,  and  for  the  Epigrams;  in  1823  the 
same  medal  a  second  time  for  the  Greek  Ode,  ■with 
the  first  prizes  for  English  and  Latin  declamation  in 
his  College.  In  1824  Sir  William  Browne's  medal  a 
second  time  for  Epigrams.  In  1823  and  1824  he 
also  gained  the  Chancellor's  medal  for  English  verse, 

*  Specimens  of  these  remarkable  compositions  will  he  found 
ill  vol.  ii.  of  this  collection. 

t  He  had  been  second  in  the  examination  for  the  Pitt 
Scholarship,  beating  all  competitors  of  his  own  standing,  and 
sat  auain  the  following  year  for  tho  Battle  Scholarship,  when 
it  appears  that  three  votes  out  <Jf  seven  wero  recorded  in  his 
favour. 


MEMOIR. 


29 


"  Australaaia"  being  the  subject  in  the  former  year, 
and  "  Athens"  in  the  latter.  In  the  classical  tripos 
his  name  appeared  third  in  the  list,  a  high  position, 
yet  scarcely  adding  to  the  reputation  which  he 
already  enjoyed.  In  1827  he  was  successful  in  the 
examination  for  a  Trinity  Fellowship,  and  in  1830  he 
completed  his  University  triumphs  by  gaining  the 
Seatonian  prizes. 

Prize  poems,  even  when  written  by  true  poets,  are 
for  the  most  part  of  ephemeral  interest,  and  do  scant 
justice  to  the  genius  of  their  authors.  It  is  one  thing 
to  perform  a  set  task  with  skill,  another  to  obey 
a  spontaneous  impulse,  and  give  expression  to 
"thoughts  that  voluntary  move  harmonious  num- 
bers." These  exercises  are  properly  intended  as 
tests  and  encouragements  of  academic  scholarship 
and  literary  culture — taste,  judgment,  and  the  art  of 
composition,  with  an  especial  reference  to  established 
models — rather  than  as  opportunities  for  the  display 
of  original  power.  lu  Praed's  case,  however,  tlieso 
poems  rise  so  for  above  the  ordinary  level,  and  dis- 
play such  clear  evidence  of  poetic  faculty,  in  him 
always  equal  to  the  occasion,  even  when  exercised 
at  a  disadvantage,  that  they  have  been  deemed 
worthy  of  preservation,  and  will  be  found  in  the 
second  volume  of  this  collection. 

Such  a  career  might  well  be  supposed  to  have 
demanded  all  the  time  and  strength  that  could  bo 
given  to  serious  effort,  and  doubtless  it  bore  evi- 
dence to  very  unusual  energy,  and  very  strenuous 
exertion.  It  was  not,  however,  in  the  suuate- 
VoL.   I.— 3 


30  MEMOIK. 

house,  or  the  schools,  nor  in  the  rigid  course  of 
intellectual  discipline  proscribed  to  the  candidate  for 
academic  distinction,  that  Praed  was  mainly  occupied, 
or  that  his  powers  were  chiefly  or  perhaps  most 
fidvantageously,  exercised.  Without  undervaluing, 
or  professing  himself  indifferent  to  University 
honours,  or  to  College  preferment  aud  emoluments,' 
by  far  the  larger  portion  of  his  time  was  devoted 
to  the  exercise  and  improvement  of  his  oratorical 
powers,  to  the  cultivation  of  his  literary  talents,  and 
to  the  enjoyment  of  social  intercourse,  itself  a  means 
of  culture  of  prime  necessity  as  a  preparation  for 
the  more  active  v/alks  of  life,  and,  in  the  present 
instance,  far  more  than  commonly  stimulating  and 
instructive.  To  the  circle  in  which  he  moved  be- 
longed many  who  became  subsequently  among  the 
most  distinguished  men  of  their  time,  and  who  were 
certainly  not  less  remarkable  in  the  spring  and 
promise  of  their  powers,  than  in  the  maturity  and 
fulfilment  of  after-life.  The  discussions  which 
occurred  at  the  frequent  meetings  of  these  friends 
— nodes  cancuque  deum — were  conducted  with  a 
force  of  argument,  a  readiness  of  illustration,  and  a 
command  of  language,  on  the  part  of  more  than 
one  of  the  disputants,  wliich  the  compiler  of  this 
Memoir  has  seldom  heard  equalled,  surpassed  per- 
haps never,  except  among  the  worthies  of  an 
earlier  generation.  It  may  readily  be  supposed  that 
the  war  of  words  was  not  exclusively  aroused  by 
matters  of  taste  or  Uterary  judgment;  the  graver 
questions  of  social,  political,  and  mental  philosophy 


MEMOIR.  31 

were  debated  with  at  least  equal  interest,  and  with 
scarcely  less  ability.  If  the  scale  and  purpose  of 
this  Memoir  admitted  of  any  discursion,  it  might  not 
be  without  interest,  or  out  of  place,  to  speak  more 
in  detail  of  the  life  with  which  Praed  was  then  asso- 
ciated, and  which  cannot  have  been  wdthout  influence 
on  the  formation  of  his  mind  and  character.  SufiBce 
it  to  say,  that  in  these  delightful  meetings  Praed 
ever  held  a  foremost  place,  his  social  qualities, 
now  fully  called  out,  not  merely  procuring  him  a 
welcome,  but  enabhng  him  to  take  a  lead  on  every 
festive  occasion.  It  was  not,  however,  his  habit 
to  commit  himself  decidedly  and  seriously  to  one  or 
the  other  side  in  the  matters  of  debate — if,  indeed, 
he  had  made  up  his  own  mind,  and  were  not  waiting 
for  further  and  more  mature  reflection.  Even  to 
his  most  intimate  friends  he  did  not  readily  disclose 
his  deeper  thoughts  and  feelings.  If  an  attempt 
were  made  to  involve  him  in  argument,  or  to 
extort  from  him  an  expression  of  opinion,  it  was 
promptly  parried  by  a  i^layful  witticism,  or  retorted 
with  good-humoured  satire.* 

*    "  He  then  a  youth 
Fresh  from  Etonian  discipline,  well  skilled 
Ib  all  her  classic  craft,  and  therewithal 
Known,  ere  his  sun  in  Granta's  sky  arose, 
In  many  a  boyish  feat,  unlike  a  boy's, 
Of  sparklin?  prose  and  verse, — he  graced  our  board 
With  that  rich  vein  of  fine  and  subtle  wit — 
Tliat  tone  of  reckless  levity— that  keen 
And  polished  sarcasm— armed  with  which  be  waged 
A  war  of  dexterous  sword-play,  wherein  few 
Encountered,  none  o'ercame  him.V 


32  MEMOIR. 

It  is  probable  that  be  felt  more  keenly  than  most 
others  that  apparent  contradiction  between  the  life 
within,  and  the  outward  conditions  under  which  it 
has  to  be  developed — not  uncommonly  experienced 
by  young  men  of  high  aspirations  and  deep  sensibility 
in  a  sense  of  perplexity  and  dissatisfaction,  which 
under  various  forms  appears  in  their  first  efforts, 
and  modifies  their  behaviour  for  a  while.  In  Praed, 
if  the  interpretation  here  offered  be  correct,  this 
showed  itself  in  a  habit  of  banter,  by  which  he  kept 
serious  words  at  bay,  and  seemed  to  drive  away  all 
serious  thoughts.  This  humour,  which  he  long  con- 
tinued to  affect,  both  in  his  conversation  and  in  his 
writings,  led  to  some  misapprehension  as  to  his  real 
character.  It  was  in  reality  both  earnest  and  tender 
in  a  remarkable  degree.  This  became  more  apparent 
as  he  advanced  in  life;  yet  his  vein  of  sportive  irony 
remained  unexhausted  to  the  last,  and  the  impression 
produced  upon  his  contemporaries  by  his  wit,  his 
gaycty,  and  his  social  talents,  is  ineffaceable. 

The  above  remarks  are  not  offered  merely  in  illus- 
tration of  character,  as  suggested  by  that  cherished 
remembrance,  preserved  by  living  memory,  but  of 
which  a  faint  outline  is  all  that  can  be  transferred  to 
these  pages.  They  have  a  bearing  upon  the  course 
of  Praed's  subsequent  conduct  as  it  became  known 
to  the  world.  Too  much  importance  is  commonly  at- 
tached to  the  expressed  opinions,  and  more  particu- 
larly to  the  political  opinions,  of  very  young  men. 
Thus  they  have  to  bear  the  reproach  of  inconsistency 
if,  as  may  well  happen,  they  afterwards  see  occasion 


MEMOIK.  33 

to  change  their  views.  In  the  case  of  Praed,  this 
spirit  of  retrospective  criticism  was  exercised  with 
more  than  ordinary  severity,  yet  with  less  than  or- 
dinary justice.  His  early  opinions  were  for  the  most 
part  undecided,  and  merely  tentative ;  eventually 
they  ripened  into  settled  convictions,  from  which  ho 
never  swerved.  Although  it  is  not  the  object  of  this 
Memoir  to  enter  with  any  particularity  upon  the  de- 
tails of  Praed's  public  life,  it  must  yet  be  mentioned 
that  during  the  years  which  he  passed  at  the 
University,  he  was  in  active  training  for  the  pro- 
fessional and,  as  it  turned  out,  the  political  career  on 
which  he  was  about  to  enter,  and  to  which  his  most 
serious  efforts  were  directed.  The  Union  Debating 
Society,  of  which,  soon  after  his  matriculation,  Praed 
became  a  member,  and  in  which  he  took  a  leading 
part,  was  then  in  its  most  high  and  palmy  state.  It 
was  hero  that  Mr.  (afterwards  Lord)  Macaulay  first 
became  known  as  an  orator,  many  of  his  speeches  in 
this  mimic  arena  being  little  inferior  in  rhetorical 
skill  or  in  force  of  argument  to  his  most  splendid 
achievements  in  Parliament.  Scarcely  less  remark- 
able, in  a  different  style,  was  the  clear  and  command- 
ing eloquence  of  Mr.  Charles  Austin,  then  equipping 
himself  for  the  very  high  position  which  he  after- 
wards obtained  as  an  advocate  and  parliamentary 
lawyer.  After  these,  amid  a  large  number  cf 
promising  speakers  destined  to  attain  celebrity  either 
at  the  bar  or  in  the  senate,  there  was  no  third 
name  that  could  bo  put  in  competition  with  that 
of  Praed.     His  style  of  speakii  '■  was  indeed  wholly 


34  MEMom. 

different  from  that  of  the  distinguished  oratora 
above  mentioned.  He  rather  shunned  than  sought  to 
carry  away  his  hearers  by  rhetorical  display.  It 
was  his  ambition  to  make  himself  an  accomplished 
debater,  to  excel  in  reply,  for  which  his  rapid  appre- 
hension, ready  wit,  and  racy  diction,  gave  him 
singular  advantages.  It  has  been  said  that  lie  was  not 
an  "  impassioned  orator."  Perhaps  not.  He  did  not 
care  to  affect  an  earnestness  Avhich  he  did  not  feel. 
He  carried  with  him  into  the  heat  of  debate  the 
sparkhng  gayety,  and  light,  careless  manner,  by  which 
he  was  generally  distinguished.  In  after-life,  when 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  the  part  which  he  was 
to  take,  and  was  contending  for  what  he  believed  to 
be  the  truth,  his  oratory  was  not  merely  serious,  but 
on  all  suitable  occasions  fervid.  His  temperament 
was  indeed  warm  and  excitable,  and  when  his  pas- 
sions were  really  roused,  as  at  a  contested  election,  he 
spoke  with  remarkable  force  and  vehemence. 

It  may  be  worthy  of  a  passing  notice,  that  in  the 
debates  of  the  Union  Society  both  Macaulay  and 
Praed  commonly  appeared  as  the  advocates  of 
opinions  more  or  less  opposed  to  those  of  the  political 
party  with  which  they  were  associated  in  after-lile. 
Then  as  afterwards  they  stood  face  to  face  as  oppo- 
nents, but  each  on  the  other  side.  We  are  not,  how- 
ever, to  conclude  that  either  the  one  or  the  other 
made,  or  would  have  cared  to  make,  a  serious  pro- 
fession of  political  principles.  They  were  engaged  in 
sportive  conflict,  following  the  bent  of  their  minds  at 
the  time,  but  without  the  sense  of  public  responsi- 


MEMOIE.  35 

bility,  or  any  direct  object  beyond  tae  exercise  of 
their  oratorical  i^owers. 

We  now  return  to  the  topic  with  which  we  are 
more  immediately  concerned,  and  to  which,  as  it  has 
fallen  out,  contrary  to  his  own  expectations  and 
those  of  his  friends,  a  more  general  as  well  as  a  more 
permanent  interest  lias  become  attached,  than  to  his 
political  training, — ^liis  literary  avocations — avoca- 
tions iu  the  proper  sense  of  the  term.  He  had  not 
made,  he  was  not  prepared  to  make,  literature  his 
xocation.  It  was  but  an  occasional  diversion,  which 
called  him  away  from  more  serious  pursuits. 

In  the  autumn  of  1822,  about  the  commencement  of 
his  second  year  at  Cambridge,  proposals  were  made 
to  him,  and  through  him  to  some  of  his  most  distin- 
guished contemporaries,  by  Mr.  Charles  Knight,  for 
the  establishment  and  support  of  a  new  periodical  to 
be  brought  out  by  the  latter,  then  commencing  busi- 
ness in  London  as  a  publisher.  Such  was  the  oiigin  of 
Elnight's  "  Quarterly  Magazine,"  of  which  the  propri- 
etor was  himself  the  responsible  editor, — Praed,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  "  Etonian,"  and  scarcely  in  an  inferior 
degree,  the  animating  and  directing  spirit. 

Of  this  periodical  a  fuU  and  interesting  account  has 
recently  been  given  by  Mr.  Knight  himself  in  his 
"Autobiography,"  already  more  than  once  quoted;  a 
much  briefer  notice  is  all  that  would  be  consistent 
with  the  limits  of  the  present  Memoir.  In  its  general 
character  the  periodical  may  be  regarded  as  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  "Etonian."  Praed  wrote  the  lea'iin,!? 
article,  in  which  the  pLui  of  the  work  was  set  forth, 


36 


MEMOIR. 


the  several  contributors  beiog  introduced  under 
feigned  names.  "  Some  eight  or  ten  of  these  noms  de 
guerre,'''  as  we  learn  from  Mr.  Knight,  "  clung  to  the 
real  men  during  their  connection  with  the  Magazine. 
Take,"  he  say8,  "as  the  more  distinguished  ex- 
amples— 

Pekegeine  Couktenat  1 

Vyvtan  Joteu.se j  •  •  ■  WiKTUROP  Mackwoktii  Praed. 

Geraed  Montgomeey John  Moultrie. 

Davenant  Cecil Deewekt  Coleridge. 

Tkisteam  Meeton Thomas  Babisgton  MACAULAr. 

Edward  IIaselfoot William  Sidney  "Walker. 

Hamilton  Mueeay Henry  Malden. 

Joseph  Hallee Henry  Nelson  Coleridge." 

To  these  must  be  added  Paterson  Aymer,  by 
which  signature  Mr.  Knight's  own  contributions  were 
distinguished. 

The  work  was  carried  on  with  considerable  vigour, 
and  a  fair  prospect  of  success,  for  three  or  four 
numbers,  in  which  are  to  be  found  the  whole  of  the 
papers  contributed  by  Praed.  It  was  hardly  to  be 
anticipated  that  a  set  of  undergraduates  would  con- 
tinue their  contributions  with  the  required  regularity, 
or  submit  without  a  murmur  to  the  curtailments  or 
alterations  required,  it  may  well  be,  by  editorial  pru- 
dence, but  not  in  their  opinion  by  any  means  enhan- 
cing the  literary  value  of  their  productions.  However 
this  may  be,  it  is  pleasant  to  record  that  the  tempo- 
rary disagreement  thus  occasioned  between  the  editor 
and  his  leading  contributor  was  of  very  short  dura- 
tion.    "  Within   two  months,"  to  use  Mr.  Knight's 


MEMOIR.  37 

own  words,  "  Mr.  Praed  spontaneously  called  upon 
me,  and  never  afterwards  lost  an  opportunity  of 
testifying  his  good-will  towards  me."  An  attempt 
was  made  to  revive  the  work,  chiefly  with  the  assist- 
ance of  another  set  of  contributors.  In  this  contin- 
uation Praed  took  no  part,  and  accordingly  the  publi- 
cation assumed  an  entirely  new  character.  Many 
articles  of  high  merit  were  contributed.  Mr.  Macau- 
lay,  Mr.  Maiden,  Mr.  Henry  Nelson  Coleridge,  and  Mr. 
De  Quincey,  lent  their  powerful  aid ;  but  it  had  lost 
the  life  and  spirit  to  wiiich  its  previous  popularity 
had  been  owing,  and  after  the  appearance  of  the 
sixth  number  the  work  was  closed,  and  brought  out 
as  a  whole  in  three  octavo  volumes.  It  is  now 
scarce,  and  may  be  pronounced  curious,  many  of  the 
most  interesting  papers,  some  of  them  by  authors 
who  afterwards  attained  high  eminence,  not  having 
been  repubhshed.* 


'The  following  papers  were  contributed  by  Praed:  "  Castle 
Vernon.— No.  I. ;"  '•  What  you  Will.— No.  I. ;"  "  Castle  Vernon. 
—No.  II.;"  "My  First  Folly;"  "Points;"  "Daniasippus;"  and 
"Leonora;"  together  with  several  enigmas  and  short  poems. 
Here,  also  first  appeared  the  first  two  cantos  of  the  "  Trouba- 
dour," each  complete  in  itself,  yet  leaving  with  the  reader  tho 
wish  and  the  hope  that  more  should  follow.  A  third  canto  was 
nctually  in  preparation,  and  far  advanced  towards  completion. 
It  is  of  fully  equal  merit  with  its  predecessor,  and  is  now 
published  for  the  first  time  as  a  fragment.  It  was  doubtless 
intended  for  the  pages  of  the  "  Quarterly  Magazine."  The  dis- 
continuance of  Pr.aed's  connection  is  indeed  much  to  be  regret- 
ted, if  only  for  tho  aorupt  conclusion  of  this  charming  poem, 
to  whiK;h  perhaps  a  fourth  canto  might  have  been  added. 


38  MEMom. 

Mr.  Kuight,  who  liad  already  earned  the  character 
of  a  mau  of  letters,  has  siuce  won  for  hiraself  the 
more  enviable  distinction  of  a  national  benefactor  by 
his  admirable  series  of  popular  works,  as  well  of 
amusement  as  of  instruction.  He  has  himself  re- 
corded the  fact,  which  he  evidently  remembers  with 
pleasure,  that  to  him  the  subject  of  this  Memoir  owed 
his  first  introduoiion  to  the  world  of  letters,  first  at 
Eton,  and  afterwards  at  Cambridge.  In  1826,  after 
Praed  had  left  the  University,  they  were  again  as- 
sociated in  the  production  of  a  periodical  entitled 
"  The  Brazen  Head,"  which,  hovrever,  notwithstand- 
ing the  talent  which  Praed  brought  to  its  support, 
failed  to  attract  public  attention,  and  was  abandoned 
after  it  had  reached  the  third  number.  "  Lidian's 
Love,"  -w-ith  one  or  two  shorter  poems  republished 
in  this  collection,  first  appeared  in  the  ephemeral 
pages  of  this  misceUany. 

The  following  is  Mr.  Knight's  account  of  this  pub- 
lication:— "In  the  spring  of  1826,  St.  Leger  and  I — 
at  a  time  when  there  was  little  prospect  of  publishim» 
books  with  any  success— thought  that  a  smart  weekly 
sheet  might  have  some  hold  upon  the  London  public, 
who  were  sick  of  all  money  questions,  and  wanted 
something  like  fun  in  tlie  gloomy  season  of  commer- 
cial ruin.  We  went  to  Eton  to  consult  Praed.  He 
entered  most  warmly  and  kindly  into  the  project.  We 
settled  that  '  The  Brazen  Head'  should  be  the  title ; 
and  that  the  Friar  and  the  Head  should  discourse 
upon  human  affairs,  chiefly  under  the  management  of 
our  brilliant  associate.      *         *         *      ^q  had  four 


MEMOIR.  39 

weeks  of  this  pleasantry,  and,  which  was  not  an  ad- 
vantage, we  had  nearly  all  the  amusement  to  our- 
Belves,  for  the  number  of  our  purchasers  was  not 
'Legion.'  Yet  in  'The  Brazen  Head'  there  are  poems 
of  Praed  (unknown  from  the  scarcity  of  these  sixty- 
four  pages  to  the  Americans,  who  have  printed  three 
editions  of  his  poems),  which  are  every  way  v/orthy 
of  that  genius  which  his  countrymen  will  soon  be 
permitted  more  fairly  to  appreciate  in  an  edition  of 
all  his  poetical  pieces,  issued  by  an  English  pub- 
lisher." 

The  autumn  of  1825  saw  Praed  once  more  estab- 
lished at  Eton,  as  Private  Tutor  to  Lord  Ernest  Bruce, 
a  younger  son  of  the  Marquis  of  Ailesbury.  The  cir- 
cumstances under  which  he  obtained  this  appoint- 
ment, with  his  motives  for  accepting  it,  may  be  given 
in  his  own  words,  extracted  from  a  letter  written  from 
Paris,  where  he  first  joined  his  young  pupil,  in  the 
spring  of  the  year : — 

"  About  a  week  before  the  Senate-House  debate, 
Dobree'i'  called  upon  me  to  know  whether  I  was  wil- 
ling to  take  a  private  tutorship  to  which  he  had  the 
power  of  recommending  me.  A  negotiation  took 
place,  which  ended  satisfactorily.  *  *  *  I  am  to 
be  with  Lord  Ernest  two  or  three  years,  during  which 
period  I  am  to  spend  two  years  in  preparing  for  a 
Trinity  Fellowship,  and  the  rest  in  keeping  terms  at 
Lincoln's  Inn,  and  preparing  for  the  bar.  With  many 
men  the  accepting  of  such  employment  would  be  a 
virtual  resignation  of  all  hopes  of  advancement  from 
*  The  late  eminent  Greek  scholar. 


40  MEMOIR. 

an  active  profession ;  but  for  myself  I  have  lived, 
during  the  last  two  years,  a  life  of  such  continued  and 
violent  excitement,  that  I  believe  a  period  of  retire- 
ment and  abstraction  wiU  do  more  for  me  than  any 
thing ;  and  I  have  acquired,  from  a  chain  of  circum- 
stances and  feehngs  that  I  cannot  detail,  a  strong 
and  enduring  ambition,  in  place  of  the  frivolous  long- 
ing for  temporary  notoriety  which  is  all  that  you 
remember  in  mo." 

It  will  be  obvious  from  this  specimen  that  a  far 
more  Uvely  impression  of  Praed's  mind — his  way  of 
thinking  and  feeling — might  have  been  conveyed 
from  a  connected  series  of  his  familiar  letters  than 
from  any  mere  description,  or  literary  portrait.  But 
from  this  course  the  compiler  of  this  biography  has 
been  withheld,  first  by  the  narrow  limits  within  which 
an  introductory  Memoir  must  necessarily  be  confined, 
and  secondly  by  the  character  of  the  letters  them- 
selves. They  are  exactly  what  such  letters  should  be, 
written  as  they  were  without  the  slightest  expecta- 
tion of  their  being  preserved ;  records,  for  the  most 
part,  of  passing  trifles,  interspersed  with  lively  com- 
ments, not  without  an  occasional  touch  of  satire,  but 
without  a  vestige  of  ill-nature.  Taken  as  a  whole, 
tliey  represent  clearly  and  faithfully  the  heart  and 
mind  from  which  they  flowed;  but  the  scanty  selec- 
tion which  could  alone  find  place  in  these  pages 
would  not  merely  be  inadequate  for  this  purpose,  but 
might  even  do  the  writer  some  injustice.  He  was  a 
diligent,  as  he  was  a  most  dehglitful  correspondent, 
and  in  every  letter  may  be  found  some  grace  of  ex- 


MEMOIR. 


41 


pression,  somo  witty  turn  of  thought,  a  keen  observa- 
tion of  men  and  manners  ;  but  they  rarely  touch,  and 
never  can  be  said  to  treat,  on  subjects  of  general 
interest,  while  the  very  warmth  and  tenderness  of 
feeling  which  constitute  their  peculiar  charm,  entitle 
them  to  the  sa-cred  privacy  for  which  they  were  ori- 
ginally intended. 

The  two  years  which  he  spent  at  Eton,  amid 
scenes  so  much  endeared  to  him  by  the  associations 
of  his  schoolboy  days,  formed  a  pleasant  sequel  to  his 
University  life.  The  system  of  private  tuition,  as 
subsidiary  to  the  regular  instruction  of  the  school, 
had  about  that  period  reached  its  climax,  and  a  num- 
ber of  accomplished  young  men  were  thus  added  to 
the  society  of  the  place.  Of  tlie  many  distinguished 
scholars  and  clergymen  with  whom  he  was  tlius 
brought  into  contact,  none  who  yet  survive  can  have 
forgotten  the  grace  and  amenity  of  his  manner,  tlie 
charm  of  his  good-humour  and  vivacious  spirits,  the 
heartiness  and  zest  with  wliich  he  shared  and  pro- 
moted the  social  recreations  with  which  the  labours 
of  tuition  were  relieved.  Those  who  knew  him  more 
intimately  will  remember,  above  all,  his  unvarying 
kindness  of  heart.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  ho 
shared  largely  iu  the  pleasure  to  which  he  so  freely 
contributed.  It  was  during  this,  his  second  residence 
at  Eton,  that  he  commenced  the  brilliant  series  of 
poetical  contributions  to  the  magazines  and  annuals 
of  the  day  which  fills  a  large  portion  of  the  succeed- 
ing pages. 

At  the  close  of  the  year  1827  his  connection  with 


4:2  MEMOIK. 

the  Marquis  of  Ailesbury  terminated.  Hereupon  he 
took  his  final  leave  of  Eton — with  mingled  feehngs. 
He  had  been  for  some  time  anxious  to  bring  his  tuto- 
rial engagement  to  a  close,  and  enter  upon  the  more 
active  career  to  which  he  felt  himself  called ;  yet  he 
could  not  take  leave  of  so  many  kind  friends  without 
regret,  or  quit  without  a  struggle  a  place  in  which,  at 
two  different  periods  of  his  life,  he  had  found  so  much 
enjoyment,  lie  now  established  himself  at  one  of  the 
Inns  of  Court,  and  devoted  himself  earnestly  for  some 
years  to  the  professional  study,  and  subsequently  to 
the  practice  of  the  law. 

He  was  called  to  the  bar  at  the  Middle  Temple, 
May  29,  1829.  He  went  the  Norfolk  circuit,  and  was 
rapidly  rising  in  reputation  and  practice.  But  the 
main  current  of  his  mind  had  run  from  the  first  in 
another  direction.  Even  when  engaged  on  the  circuit 
he  would  post  up  to  London  to  attend  a  parliamentary 
debate,  hurrying  back  to  his  legal  engagements  as 
soon  as  it  was  concluded;  and  when,  as  we  shaU 
presently  see,  he  obtained  a  seat  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  his  senatorial  duties  more  than  divided 
and  eventually  threatened  to  engross  his  time  and 
thoughts. 

"We  have  now  arrived  at  a  turning  point  of  Praed's 
life — the  commeuce.ujoi:t  of  his  pubUc  career  as  a 
Member  of  Parliament,  of  which,  however,  it  would 
be  foreign  to  the  purpose  of  this  Memoir  to  record 
more  than  the  leading  facts.  No  man,  it  is  believed, 
ever  entered  the  service  of  his  country  with  a  more 
ardent  zeal,  or  with  a  deeper  sense  of  duty.     To  this 


MEMOIR.  4:3 

he  devoted,  during  the  whole  remainder  of  his  life, 
his  time,  his  talents,  and  his  strength ;  for  this  he 
was  ready  to  make  any  sacrifice ;  but  he  had  from 
tlie  first  to  contend  with  adverse  circumstances,  and 
with  failing  health ;  and  if  we  would  raise  a  mon- 
ument to  his  patriotic  efforts,  it  must,  alasl  be  a 
broken  column. 

It  has  already  been  intimated  that  his  political  sen- 
timents, during  his  residence  at  Cambridge,  so  far  as 
he  had  cared  to  express  them,  had  been  of  a  liberal 
character ;  and  his  associations,  for  some  years  after 
he  left  tlie  University,  had  been  with  the  Liberal 
party.  Thus  in  the  summer  of  the  year  1829,  we 
find  him  engaged  as  a  member  of  Mr.  Cavendisli's 
committee,  the  Whig  candidate  for  the  representation 
of  Cambridge  ;  and  so  late  as  the  autumn  of  the  fol- 
lowing year,  he  expressed  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  a 
very  lively  satisfaction  in  Mr.  Brougham's  election  for 
Yorkshire.  Up  to  this  time,  then,  it  would  seem  that 
he  retained  his  sympathies  with  his  old  friends  on  the 
liberal  side  of  politics.  His  appearance,  therefore, 
shortly  afterwards  as  a  member  of  tlie  Conservative 
party  in  the  House  of  Commons,  occasioned  consider- 
able surprise.  The  change  was,  however,  more  appa- 
rent than  real ;  a  change  in  his  political  associations, 
rather  than  a  change  in  sentiments.  He  had  never 
sided  with  the  extreme  views  of  the  so-called  Radical 
Reformers,  and  to  the  last  he  continued  the  friend  of 
social  progress,  and  was  by  no  means  opposed  to 
such  changes  in  the  constitutional  arrangements  of 
the   country,  as  altered  circumstances,  and  the  ad- 


44 


MEMOnt. 


vanoement  of  political  science,  appeared  to  require. 
He  was  the  zealous  and  active  friend  of  national  edu- 
cation, he  was  attached  to  the  doctrines  of  free  trade, 
and  hailed  with  pleasure  the  relief  of  religious  opinion 
from  political  restrictions.  But  important  changes  in 
this  direction  had  already  taken  place.  The  Test  and 
Corporation  Act  had  been  rescinded,  the  Bill  for 
Catholic  Emancipation  had  been  passed  ;  and  as,  on 
the  one  hand,  the  leaders  of  Conservative  opinions 
were  becoming  more  and  more  identified  with  liberal 
measures,  so,  on  the  other  hand,  the  reforming  party, 
at  that  critical  period,  were  tending  to  what  he  con- 
sidered to  be  a  revolutionary  extreme.  Such  at  least 
was  the  view  taken  by  Praed,  as  appears  from  his 
own  statement,  conveyed  in  a  letter  to  an  old  college 
friend  (the  Rev.  Charles  Hartshorne),  bearing  date 
January  17,  1831: — 

"Your  kind  and  friendly  letter  gratified  me  vcrv 
much,  and  amused  me  not  a  little  ;  in  the  first  place 
I  was  delighted  to  find  yourself;  with  many  old 
familiars,  welcoming  my  arrival  at  a  goal  I  had  long 
strained  for ;  and,  in  the  next  place,  I  could  not  but 
smile  to  think  of  the  face  you  will  make  when  you 
read  in  the  '  Court  Journal'  that  I  am  to  be  in- 
troduced to  pohtical  life  by  the  Duke  of  "WellingloD, 
or  in  the  '  Age'  that  I  am  pledged  to  vote  against  the 
Whigs.  There  is  as  much  truth  in  one  as  in  the 
otlier;  none  in  either.  I  am  not  acquainted  with  the 
Duke,  and  I  am  not  pledged  to  vote  this  way,  or  that 
way,  on  any  one  subject.  I  beheve  there  is  no  man 
in   the   House   more  at   liberty  to  follow  his   own 


MEMOIR.  45 

incliuations.  My  old  college  opinions  have,  however, 
been  considerably  modified  by  subsequent  acquaint- 
ance with  the  world,  and  more  observation  of  things 
as  they  are.  I  am  not  going  to  stem  a  torrent,  but  I 
confess  I  should  like  to  confine  its  fury  within  some 
bounds.  I  am  in  no  small  degree  an  alarmist,  and  I 
would  readily  give  a  cartload  of  abstract  ideas  for  a 
certainty  of  fifty  years'  peace  and  quietness.  So  my 
part  in  political  matters  will  probably  expose  me  to 
all  sorts  of  abuse  for  ratting,  and  so  forth.  I  abandon 
the  party,  if  ever  I  belonged  to  it,  in  which  my 
friends  and  my  interests  are  both  to  be  found,  and  I 
adopt  one  where  I  can  hope  to  earn  nothing  but  a 
barren  reputation,  and  the  consciousness  of  meaning 
well.  If  all  I  hear  be  correct,  your  friends  the 
"Whigs  find  the  machine  going  a  little  too  fast,  and 
are  not  sorry  that  some  should  be  found  to  put  on 
the  drag." 

This  interesting  statement,  the  sincerity  of  which 
will  be  questioned  by  no  one  acquainted  with  the 
straightforward  truthfulness  of  the  writer,  needs  no 
comment.  The  nature,  the  extent,  and  the  reasons 
of  the  change,  which  occasioned  so  much  animad- 
version at  the  time,  and  which  is  not  yet  forgotten, 
are  clearly  set  before  us.  In  common  with  other 
men  of  note,  by  whom  his  example  was  speedily 
followed,  lie  had  persuaded  himself  tliat  tlie  safety 
of  the  country,  and  witli  it  the  hope  of  improve- 
ment and  real  progress,  were  endangered  by  the 
haste  and  violence  displayed  by  the  advocates  of 
Parliamentary  Reform  at  that  stirring  period;  and, 
Vol.  I.— 4 


46  MEMOIR. 

accordingly,  wheu  the  time  for  action  was  come, 
hi3  early  prepossessions  gave  way.  Doubtless  in 
thus  obtaining  a  seat  in  the  British  Seaate  he 
satisfied  the  yearnings,  long  cherished,  of  an 
honourable  ambition;  and  while  he  was  clearly 
aware  that  his  worldly  interests  were  rather  com- 
promised than  promoted  by  the  step  which  he  had 
taken,  he  was  full  of  hope,  and  the  resolution  which 
it  engenders.  He  entered  Parliament,  as  we  have 
seen,  on  the  most  independent  footing,  which  he 
preserved  to  the  last;  yet  he  served  the  party  to 
which  he  had  united  himself  with  no  wavering 
allegiance.  He  devoted  himself  to  the  business  of 
the  House  with  indefatigable  zeal;  and  though  he 
had  an  up-hill  path  to  climb,  associated  as  he  was 
with  an  unpopular  cause,  and  confronted  by  an- 
tagonists of  the  most  brilliant  talent,  yet  he  did 
more  than  enough  to  prove  that,  had  not  his  health 
given  "way,  he  would  have  eventually  obtained  high 
and  permanent  distinction  as  a  statesman. 

The  first  difficulty  with  which  his  parliamentary 
career  was  commenced  arose  from  the  high  expecta- 
tions which  he  had  to  satisfy.  That  this  anticipa- 
tion was  not  immediately  realized  may  be  explained 
partly  from  the  fact,  that  the  qualities  for  which  he 
was  most  desirous  of  gaining  credit,  and  in  which 
he  was  fitted  to  excel,  required  time  for  their  exer- 
cise. Though  he  possessed  an  easy  command  of 
language,  he  wanted  the  physical  power  requisite 
for  oratorical  display,  and  rather  sought  to  acquire 
distinction  by  his    intimate    acquaintance    with  the 


MEMOIR. 


47 


subject,  and  his  ability  to  deal  with  it  in  detail. 
His  maiden  speech  on  the  cotton  duties,  uninviting 
as  tho  subject  might  appear  to  a  young  member, 
and  foreign  to  his  previous  habits  of  thought  and 
study,  was,  however,  eminently  successful,  and 
created  a  considerable  sensation  even  among  his 
political  opponents.  In  his  next  effort,  to  which  he 
had  looked  forward  with  extreme  anxiety,  he  was 
not  so  fortunate.  He  did  not  again  address  the 
House  till  the  Reform  Bill  came  on  for  discussion. 
The  speech  which  he  delivered  on  this  occasion  is 
still  extant.  It  is  temperate,  firm,  and  argumenta- 
tive, but  was  delivered  under  most  unfavourable 
circumstances,  and  barely  obtained  a  hearing.  He 
was  suffering  at  the  time  from  a  severe  cold,  and, 
as  he  did  not  catch  the  Speaker's  eye  till  past 
midnight,  he  was  unable  to  command  the  attention 
of  the  House,  which  had  already  exhibited  symptoms 
of  impatience. 

It  cannot  be  doubted  that  Praed  for  some  time 
after  this  check  laboured  under  a  sense  of  dis- 
couragement, to  which,  however,  he  did  not  givo 
way.  He  continued  from  time  to  time  to  take  a  part 
in  the  discussions  of  the  House,  and  steadily  rose  in 
general  estimation,  not  merely  as  a  ready  and 
skilful  debater,  but  for  the  higher  qualities  of  politi- 
cal intelligence  and  sagacity.  After  his  death,  he 
was  designated  as  a  "rising  statesman"  by  Lord 
John  Russell,  in  allusion  to  a  scheme  which  he  had 
propounded,  for  giving  proportional  weight  to  the 
opinions  of  the    minority  in  the  representation  of 


48  MEMOIR. 

the  country.*  He  was  first  returned  to  Parliament 
for  the  borough  of  St.  Germains,  in  November,  1830, 
find  again  for  the  same  place  at  the  general  election 
of  1831.  In  1832,  after  the  passing  of  the  Reform 
Bill,  by  which  St.  Germains  had  lost  its  franchise, 
he  contested  the  borough  of  St.  Ives,  in  Cornwall, 
where  his  relative,  Mr.  Praed  of  Trevethow,  a 
country-seat  in  the  neighbourhood,  possessed  con- 
siderable influence.  Party  spirit,  however,  ran  high 
at  the  time,  and  notwithstanding  a  vigorous  canvass, 
in  which  his  oratorical  powers  were  displayed  to 
great   advantage,  he   lost  his   election ;  and  during 

*  This  project  was  to  the  following  effect : — In  the  Reform 
Bill  of  1S31,  it  was  provided  that  certain  counties  should  be 
represented  by  three  members.  The  opportunity  was  thus 
afforded  of  giving  weight  to  the  opinions  of  a  minority  of 
voters,  by  restricting  the  number  of  votes  to  be  given  by  each 
of  the  electors  to  two  only  ;  by  which  certain  anomalies  of 
representation — greater  then,  when  party  spirit  was  high,  than 
now,  when  such  irregularities  have  partially  corrected  them- 
selves under  the  influence  of  time  and  the  spirit  of  compromise 
— were  to  some  extent  remedied  and  avoided.  The  scheme 
was  proposed  in  the  form  of  an  amendment  in  committee,  and 
received  but  slight  attention  at  the  time ;  but  it  has  since, 
more  than  once,  been  noticed  with  praise  by  the  philosophical 
observers  of  the  working  of  our  parliamentary  constitution. 

Another  amendment  was  moved  by  Praed  to  the  lleform 
Bill  of  1832,  which,  if  carried,  would  have  forestalled  the 
measure  upon  which  the  last  Derby  Government  practically 
stated  its  existence.  It  was  "  that  freeholds  situate  within 
boroughs  should  in  all  cases  confer  votes  for  the  borough,  and 
not  for  the  county."  The  proposal  was,  of  course,  rejected ; 
but  the  speech  in  which  it  was  advocated  contains  a  store  of 
valuable  hints  as  to  the  principal  defects  in  the  Reform  Bill 
of  1S3'2,  and  fully  deserves  consideration  by  future  Reformcra 


MEMOIR.  49 

the  interim  between  this  and  the  following  Parlia- 
ment, he  resumed  his  practice  at  the  Bar  with  his 
wonted  vigour  and  with  no  inconsiderable  success. 
But  his  mind  could  not  be  turned  aside  from  the 
active  struggle  of  political  life,  and  though  no  longer 
in  Parliament,  he  was  present,  night  after  night,  at 
its  debates,  as  an  interested  spectator.  To  this 
period  are  to  be  referred  many  of  the  political 
squibs,  still  remembered  as  the  productions  of  his 
pen,  though  published  anonymously.  Of  this  species 
of  composition  he  was  a  consummate  master,  and 
though  it  has  not  been  thought  expedient  to 
incorporate  these  monuments  of  party  strife  in  the 
present  edition  of  his  poems,  if  indeed  the  time  be 
yet  fully  come  for  their  reappearance,  it  is  .  not 
improbable  that  they  may  hereafter  be  reproduced 
in  a  collected  form,  as  revised  by  the  author,  by 
whom  they  were  printed  in  a  small  volume  for 
private  circulation. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  was  again  enabled  to 
compete  as  an  active  candidate  for  parliamentary 
honours.  In  1834,  he  was  returned,  with  Mr.  T. 
Baring,  for  Yarmouth.  He  always  regarded  his  suc- 
cess on  this  occasion  as  a  signal  triumpli,  which,  how- 
ever, was  dearly  purchased.  The  exertions  which 
he  used  to  secure  his  seat  overtasked  the  powers 
of  his  constitution,  aiid,  it  is  believed,  first  developed, 
if  they  did  not  lay  the  foundation,  of  that  fatal  disease 
to  which  a  few  years  afterwards  he  fell  a  victim. 
But  his  energy  was  irrepressible ;  and  now  his  merit 
was  publicly  recognized  by  the  leaders  of  his  party. 


50  MEMOIR. 

He  had  alreadj'-  formed  the  acquaintance  of  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  to  whom,  as  he  truly  said,  he  was  per- 
sonally unknown  at  his  first  entrance  into  political  life. 
In  the  year  1833,  the  Duke  became  the  suljject  of  a 
malicious  attack  in  the  newspapers  connected  with  the 
distribution  of  certain  places  of  small  value  which  had 
been  bestowed  upon  deserving  officers  of  long  service 
in  the  field.  At  this  time  Praed  was  a  regular  contrib- 
utor to  the  "  Morning  Post."  The  Duke  sent  for  him. 
intrusted  him  with  the  facts  upon  which  he  rested 
his  defence,  and  requested  him  to  undertake  an 
■answer  to  the  attacks  of  the  Liberal  papers  in  the 
columns  of  the  "  Post."  The  defence  was  considered 
complete  and  satisfactory,  and  the  acquaintance  thus 
formed  between  the  statesman  and  the  young  writer 
was  further  extended  during  a  visit  to  Walmer  Castle, 
of  which  Praed  writes  the  following  account,  dated 
Aylesbury,  October  15,  1833  :— "My  time  at  Walmer 
Castle  was  spent  very  agreeably.  On  the  first  morn- 
ing I  had  a  long  interview  with  his  Grace  on  '  busi- 
ness,' in  which  ho  opened  to  me  all  his  views, 
personal  and  political,  with  a  frankness  which  was 
most  flattering  and  most  delightful.  To  be  put  on 
terms  of  the  most  intimate  confidence  with  the  great- 
est man  of  his  time,  was  what  indeed  I  should  scarcely 
have  dreamed  of  a  few  years  ago.  He  seemed  at 
least  to  keep  nothing  from  me:  his  judgment  of 
measures,  and  his  opinions  of  men;  his  fears, which 
are  manifold,  and  his  hopes,  which  are  few  or  none, 
were  all  expounded.  I  can  scarcely  be  too  proud  of 
such  a  reception,  or  too  much  pleased  with  the  pros- 
pect it  aflbrds  of  future  intercourse  with  such  a  man. 


MEMOIR.  51 

It  was  made  the  more  satisfactory  to  me  from  the 
candour  with  which  he  spoke  of  the  permanent  ex- 
clusion of  the  Tories  from  poHtical  power — a  promise 
which  he  would  scarcely  have  held  out  to  an  ad- 
herent of  whose   motives  he    thought  meanly." 

This  "promise"  was  not  however  literally  or  imme- 
diately fulfilled ;  and  under  the  ministry  of  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  1834-1835,  Praed  held  the  office  of  Secretary 
to  the  Board  of  Control,  the  terms  in  which  the  offer 
was  made  to  him  being  scarcely  less  gratifying  than 
the  appointment  itself.  The  following  is  Sir  Robert 
Peel's  letter  on  this  occasion  : — 

"  Whitehall,  Dec.  13, 1S34 

"My  Dear  Sir:  Tour  name  has  occurred  to  me 
among  the  first  in  my  consideration  of  those  appoint- 
ments which,  in  point  of  fact  (whatever  their  name  or 
rank  in  point  of  precedence  may  be),  are  of  the  first 
importance  from  the  nature  of  the  duties  attached  to 
them.  Among  those  there  is  not  one  affording 
greater  opportunities  of  distinction,  or  requiring 
more  ability  and  prudence,  than  the  office  of  Sec- 
retary of  the  Board  of  Control,  when  the  Head  of 
that  Board  is  in  the  House  of  Lords. 

"  I  do  not  make  the  offer  of  this  appointment  to 
you  without  previous  communication  with  Lord 
Ellenborough,  the  future  President,  and  having  ascer- 
tained his  entire  concurrence  in  my  opinion  as  to 
your  high  qualifications  for  it. 

"Believe  me,  my  dear  sir,  most  faithfully  yours. 

"  Robert  Peel. 
""W.  Mackworth  Praed,  Esq., 
Great  Yarmouth." 


52  MEMom. 

In  1837,  having  received  an  invitation  from  the 
Aylesbury  electors,  he  was  induced  by  prudential 
considerations  to  retire  from  Yarmouth,  when  he  was 
presented  with  a  silver  cup  by  the  Conservative 
electors  of  that  borough,  with  whom  he  had  rendered 
himself  extremely  popular,  in  recognition  of  bis  ser- 
vices as  their  representative.  At  Aylesbury  he 
gained  his  election,  and  was  Member  for  that  borough 
at  the  time  of  his  death. 

It  only  remains  to  add  tliat  during  the  latter  years 
of  his  life  he  held  the  office  of  Deputy  High  Steward 
of  the  University  of  Cambridge.  ,  To  this  most  appro- 
priate distinction  he  attached  a  peculiar  value.  It 
renewed  a  connection  of  which  he  was  justly  proud, 
and  which  he  was  always  desirous  to  preserve  and 
cherish.  If,  indeed,  his  life  had  been  spared,  and 
the  opportunity  had  presented  itself,  it  is  not  im- 
possible that  he  might  have  oflered  himself  as  a 
candidate  for  the  representation  of  that  seat  of  learn- 
ing. Such,  at  least,  is  known  to  have  been  his  own 
wish,  and  the  hope  of  his  friends. 

In  the  party  conflicts  in  which  Praed  engaged  with 
so  much  zeal,  and  in  which  it  will  appear,  even  from 
this  brief  summary,  that  he  played  no  undistin- 
guished part,  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  avoid 
all  collision  with  his  former  associates,  who  sat 
with  him  in  Parhameo't,  but  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  House.  Rarely,  indeed,  did  any  approach  to 
personal  animosity  mingle  with  the  strife ;  and  it 
would  be  worse  than  idle,  after  the  lapse  of  so 
many  years,  to  recall    the  expressions  of  transient 


MEMOIR.  53 

irritation  which  lie  may  on  any  occasion  have  had 
to  encounter  in  the  heat  of  debate.  To  his  friends, 
of  whatever  pohtical  opinion,  he  remained  to  tlie  last 
what  he  had  been  from  the  first ;  and  the  affectionate 
admiration  with  wliich  he  is  remembered  by  his 
surviving  contemporaries  is  without  alloy. 

But  one  other  incident  connected  with  his  public 
life  remains  to  be  recorded.  In  1838.  he  was  en- 
gaged, with  Mr.  T.  D.  Acland,  Mr.  Mathison,  Mr. 
H.  N.  Coleridge,  and  other  fiiends,  in  and  out  of 
Parliament,  in  preparing  a  scheme  of  education  for 
the  children  of  the  labouring  classes,  to  be  carried 
out  under  the  auspices  of  the  National  Society,  in 
accordance  with  the  rehgious  requirements  of  the 
country.  This  scheme,  which  included  an  effectual 
provision  for  the  instruction  and  training  of  the 
National  Schoolmaster,  was  ably  seconded,  on  the 
part  of  the  Government,  by  Sir  James  Kaye  Shuttle- 
worth,  and  remains  a  monument — it  is  to  be  hoped 
an  enduring  monument — of  the  enlightened  zeal  of 
its  authors  and  promoters. 

On  Praed's  domestic  life  we  must,  for  obvious 
reasons,  touch  lightly.  In  the  opening  pages  of 
this  memoir  it  has  been  mentioned  that  on  the 
death  of  his  mother  he  was  indebted  to  the  care  of 
an  elder  sister.  Her  decease,  which  took  place  in 
1830,  made  a  deep  impression  on  his  mind,  and 
contributed,  with  the  advance  of  years  and  the  ex- 
perience of  life,  to  that  greater  earnestness  and 
seriousness  of  character  which  marked  his  later 
years.     The  greater  part  of  that  year  was   passed 


54:  MEMOIR. 

in  the  most  tender  attendance  in  the  sick-room, 
and  afterwards  in  eadeavouring  to  cheer  the  home 
made  desolate  by  her  removal  He  gave  up  the 
Summer  Circuit  that  he  might  devote  himself  more 
fully  to  this  object ;  and  the  unselfishness  with  vrhich 
ho  set  aside  his  own  stirring  occupations  for  the 
claims  of  family  affection,  can  never  be  forgotten  by 
those  who  shared  the  sorrow  and  partook  of  the 
sympathy. 

In  1835  he  lost  his  father,  to  whom  he  was  afiec- 
tionately  and  reverentially  attached,  and  whose  mem. 
ory  deserves  on  every  account  to  be  handed  down 
■with  that  of  the  son  whose  mind  he  did  so  much  to 
form,  and  who  profited  so  largely  by  his  precept  and 
example. 

It  may  well  be  supposed  that  his  legal  and  parlia- 
mentary engagements  left  him  little  time  for  literary 
pursuits.  He  continued,  however,  from  time  to  time 
to  contribute  poems  to  the  "  Literary  Souvenir"  and 
other  periodicals,  from  which  they  have  now  been 
collected.  His  political  squibs  have  been  already 
mentioned,  and,  besides  these,  articles  from  his  pen 
appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  '•  Morning  Post." 
To  the  last  his  poetical  talent  was  exercised  with  no 
decrease  of  power,  and  with  even  increasing  refine- 
ment of  taste,  whether  for  the  amusement  of  his 
friends,  in  pieces  of  playful  fancy,  or  in  the  tender 
service  of  family  afiection  ;  to  the  last, — when  sick- 
ness had  at  length  completely  incapacitated  him  from 
every  other  occupation ;  and  it  is  scarcely  possible 
to  repress  a  feeling  of  regret  that  he  had  not  sooner 


MEMOIR. 


55 


withdrawn  from  the  toils  and  excitement,  whether 
of  the  bar  or  the  senate,  before  it  was  too  late,  and 
devoted  the  full  power  of  his  mind  to  that  genial  art 
m  which  his  success  was  incontestable,  and  to  which, 
as  it  is,  he  owes  his  permanent  reputation. 

But  it  was  not  so  to  be.  The  uncontrollable  energy 
of  his  nature  carried  him  on  year  after  year,  while 
the  disease  was  yet  only  nascent ;  and  month  after 
month,  long  after  lie  had  received  unmistakable 
warning  of  its  increasing  growth. 

But  there  is  a  briglit  side  to  this  picture.  His  lat- 
ter years,  amid  all  the  trials  which  he  had  to  pass 
through,  aggravated  as  they  were  by  bodily  infirmity 
and  suffering,  were  cheered  and  solaced  by  the  best 
earthly  consolation — ^that  of  the  domestic  hearth.  In 
the  summer  of  1835,  while  his  hopes  of  pubhc  ad- 
vancement were  yet  high,  and  no  suspicion  of  the 
uncertainty  of  his  bodily  health  had  dawned  upon 
his  mind,  he  was  happily  united  in  marriage  to  Helen, 
daughter  of  George  Bogle,  Esq.,  a  lady  to  whose  vir- 
tues and  accomplishments  a  respectful  allusion  is  all 
that  can  here  be  permitted.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that 
during  the  four  years  of  their  companionship,  she 
devoted  to  her  husband,  whose  high  qualities,  intel- 
lectual and  moral,  she  was  every  way  qualified  to 
appreciate,  all  the  resources  of  the  most  assiduous 
affection ;  and  that  during  the  four-and-twenty  years 
of  her  widowhood,  she  never  ceased  to  mourn  his 
loss.  Her  own  decease  occurred  early  in  the  autumn 
of  the  past  year. 

Little  remains  to  be  told.     The  winter  of  1838-9 


56  MEMOIK. 

was  spent  by  Praed,  with  his  wife  and  two  infant 
daughters,  at  St.  Leonard's-on-Sea,  when  aggravated 
symptoms  of  the  disorder  under  which  he  had  in 
reality  long  laboured,  and  in  particular  an  increased 
difficulty  of  breathing  when  taking  exercise,  began 
to  force  tliemselves  upon  his  attention.  Neverthe- 
le_ss,  upon  his  return  to  London  for  the  meeting  of 
Parliament,  in  the  February  of  1839,  his  general 
health  appeared  to  have  improved,  when  he  entered 
upon  the  discharge  of  his  public  duties  with  undimin- 
ished energy,  neither  entertaining  himself,  nor,  it 
would  appear,  leading  those  about  him  to  entertain, 
any  unusual  alarm  for  the  probable  consequences  of 
his  exertions.  It  was  not  till  the  termination  of  the 
debate  on  the  Corn  Laws,  which  lasted  seven  nights, 
that  any  serious  apprehensions  were  entertained. 
Dr.  James  Johnson,  who  had  attended  him  in  the 
earlier  stvages  of  his  illness,  was  now  called  in  ;  but 
though  he  appeared,  on  the  cessation  of  the  easterly 
wind — to  the  long  continuance  of  which  he  had  at- 
tributed the  increase  of  his  ailments, — to  rally  a 
Uttle,  no  real  improvement  took  place.  Still  he  re- 
mained fuU  of  hope  and  resolution,  and  taking  advan- 
tage of  an  adjournment  of  Parhament,  consequent 
upon  a  transient  change  of  Government  in  the  May 
of  that  year,  paid  a  visit  to  Cambridge  in  his  oflScial 
capacity  of  Deputy  High  Steward.  The  letter  from 
which  the  following  is  taken  is  dated  the  29th  of 
May,  the  last  wliich  the  writer  of  this  Memoir 
received  from  his  beloved  friend : — "  Helen  went 
with  me  to  Cambridge  on  the  I7th  instant,  where  I 


MEMOIR.  57 

wa)3  to  have  held  my  court  last  week ;  hut  to  my 
amazement  I  found  my  supposed  sinecure  up  to  its 
chin  in  points  of  disputed  jurisdiction,  so  that  I  was 
forced  to  dismiss  my  Leet  Jury  re  inft^dd,  and  return 
to  tovm  to  study  opinions  of  counsel,  and  refer  the 
matters  in  discussion,  or  at  least  my  cause  there- 
anent,  to  the  attention  of  the  Vice-Chaucellor  and 
Heads,  whose  attention  to  the  subject  I  tool:  care  trt 
bespeak.  We  might  have  passed  our  week's  holiday 
agreeably  enough  at  Cambridge,  Helen  having  never 
visited  it  before,  but  for  the  severity  of  the  weatlier, 
which  from  Tuesday  the  21st  to  Saturday  25th  was 
Y/inter  in  bleak  earnest.  I  could  do  little  in  the 
way  of  lionizing.  Helen,  however,  saw  much  of 
what  is  sight-worthy.  The  hospitalities  of  our  old 
friends  in  Trinity  and  elsewhere  were  of  course 
boundless." 

The  buoyancy  of  his  mind,  and  the  interest  which 
he  continued  to  take  in  public  affairs,  appears  from 
what  follows: — "  This  morning,  with  your  letter,  I 
duly  received  your  four  petitions,  which  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  present.  Our  London  Meeting  on  the 
Education  Question  was  magnificent."  In  fact,  he 
continued,  notwithstanding  the  remonstrances  of  his 
friends,  to  attend  in  his  place  in  Parliament  till  nearly 
the  middle  of  June,  when  he  paired  off  with  Lord 
Arundel  for  the  rest  of  the  session.  This  step  he 
was  at  length  induced  to  take  by  the  advice  of  Dr. 
Paris,  to  whom  his  case  had  been  referred.  On  the 
nth  of  June  he  was  removed  to  Sudbury  Grove,  a 
villa  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Harrow,  kindly  placed 


58  MEMom. 

at  his  disposal  by  a  friend.  But  it  was  too  late  to 
hope  even  for  a  partial  restoration.  He  grew  rapidly- 
worse,  and  his  return  to  London  was  not  accom- 
phslied  without  difBculty. 

He  entered  into  his  rest  on  the  15th  of  July,  1839, 
at  his  own  house  in  Chester  Square,  and  was  interred 
on  the  23d  of  the  same  month,  in  the  cemetery  at 
Kensal  Green,  his  funeral  being  attended  by  his 
widow,  his  two  brothers,  and  a  considerable  number 
of  his  relations  and  private  friends;  and  among 
these,  by  the  writer  of  the  present  sketch,  who  had 
also  the  melancholy  but  valued  privilege  of  attending 
him  in  his  last  hours. 

lie  left  two  daughters,  Helen  Adeline  Mackworth, 
and  Elizabeth  Lillian  Mackworth,  under  whose  au- 
thority the  present  collection  of  their  father's  poems 
is  given  to  the  public. 

A  monumental  Tablet  at  Kensal  Green  bears  the 
"  following  inscription,  from  the  pen  of  the  Reverend 
James  Hildyard: — 


JUXTA   HOC   MARMOa  CONDITUM   EST 
QUICQUID   MORTALE   FUIT   EGREGII   VIRI   ET   BENAT0KI3, 

WINTITROP  MAOKWOETH  PRAED,  A.M., 

COLL.  83.  TRIN.  CANTAB.  OLIM   SOCII  :    EJUSDKMQUE   ACADEMIC  PKOSENKSCAl  1 1 

TER   AD  CURIAM    BBITANNICAM   A  TRIBU3   MUNICIPII3   DEI.KIJATI, 

ALIISQUB  TUM  PRIVATI3  TDM   PnBLICI3   HONORIBUS   INSIGMTI. 

NAT.   VII.  KAL.  SBXTIL.   MDCCCIL      OBllT   ID.   JUL.    MDCCCXXXIX. 

JUVENTUTEM   OITIMIS  LITTERIS,   .ETATEM   .MATURIOREM   KEIPUBL1C«, 

UNIVERSAM   VITAM   INGENIUM   VIRE3  ELOQUENTIAM   PATBI.B    DICAMT. 

BARO  SIMUL  CONJUNCT.E  SUNT  TOT   NATUR.E   DOTES, 

TAM   DOCTRIN/E   AKTIUMQUE   LIBERALIUM   6UBSID1I3   EXCULT.t;: 

BAEISSIMB  TAM  OSNEKIS  HOUAKI   UTILITATI  TAM  CHBISTI   BO.VORI   SUB.IKCIJi 


MEMOIR.  59 

niUATCRA    EHBO    MORTB   COEKEPTUS   TEISTK   SUI    AmCIS   DESIDEKIUM, 

AH   QUANTO  TRISTIUS  CONJUGI   DILKCTISSIM*    AMANTISRIMJC   RSLIQUIT. 

ILLA   SICUT  HOC  TESTIMONIO   DEFLETAM   MEMOBIAM   PIE   PROSECL'TA    EST, 

ITA   GRATO  TAMEN    ANIMO   DKUM    DATOREM, 

SOBMISSO    ADEMPTORKM    VENERATOR. 

Beneath  a  marble  bust  in  the  possession  of  his 
widow  were  engraved  the  following  lines  by  the 
Rev.  John  Moultrie,  a  last  tribute  paid  by  his  valued 
friend  and  brother-poet  to  the  memory  of  Winthrop 
Mackworth  Praed: — 

Not  that  in  him,  whom  these  poor  praises  T\Tong, 
Gifts,  rare  themselves,  in  rarest  union  dwelt; 

Not  that,  revealed  through  eloquence  and  song. 

In  him  the  Bard  and  Statesman  breathed  and  felt;— 

Not  that  his  nature,  graciously  endued 
With  feelings  and  aflfections  pure  and  high, 

"Was  purged  from  worldly  tiint,  and  self-subdued. 
Till  soul  o'er  sense  gained  perfect  mastery ; — 

Not  for  this  only  we  lament  his  loss,— 
Not  for  this  chiefly  we  account  him  blest; 

But  that  all  this  he  cast  beneath  the  Cross, 
Content  for  Christ  to  live,  in  Christ  to  rest 


TALES, 


Vol.  I.— 5 


LILLIAN, 

A     FAIRY     TALE. 

The  reader  is  requested  to  believe  that  the  following  state- 
ment is  literally  true ;  because  the  writer  is  well  aware  that 
the  circumstances  under  which  Lillian  was  composed  are 
the  only  source  of  its  merits,  and  the  only  apology  for  its 
faults. 

At  a  small  party  at  Cambridge  some  malicious  belles  endeav- 
oured to  confound  their  sonneteering  friends,  by  setting  unin- 
telligible and  inexplicable  subjects  for  the  exercise  of  their 
poetical  talents.  Among  many  oth  .rs,  -ue  thesis  was  given 
out  which  is  the  mottc  «>/  iniiij    • 

"  A  Aragon  a  tali  Is  nayed  to  warm 
A  headless  maiden's  beart,^ 

and  the  following  poem  was  an  attempt  to  explain  the  riddle. 

The  partiality  with  which  it  has  been  honoured  in  manu- 
script, and  the  frequent  applications  which  have  been  made  to 
the  author  for  copies,  must  be  his  excuse  for  sending  it  to  the 
press. 

It  was  written,  however,  with  the  sole  view  of  amusing  the 
friends  in  whose  circle  the  idea  originated ;  .and  to  them,  with 
all  due  humility  and  devotion,  it  is  inscribed. 

Teinity  College,  Cambbidge, 
Ockiber  26,  1822. 


LILLIAN. 


"A  fh-agon's tail  is  flayed  to  warm 
A  headless  maiden's  heart." 

JJ1S8 . 

"And  he's  cleckit  this  great  muckle  bird  oat  o'  this  wee  egg  I 
he  could  wile  the  veiy  flounders  out  o'  the  Frith!" — Mb.  Sad- 
dletree. 

CAXTO    I. 

There  vtsls  a  Dragon  in  Arthur's  time 

(When  dragons  and  griffins  were  voted  prime), 

Of  monstrous  reputation : 
Up  and  down,  and  far  and  wide, 
lie  roamed  about  in  his  scaly  pride ; 
And  ever,  at  morn  and  even-tide. 
He  made  such  rivers  of  blood  to  run 
As  shocked  the  sight  of  the  blushing  sun, 

And  deluged  half  the  nation. 


It  was  a  pretty  monster  too. 

With  a  crimson  head,  and  a  body  blue, 


64  LILLIAN. 

And  wings  of  a  warm  and  delicate  hue, 

Like  the  glow  of  a  deep  carnation  ; 
And  the  terrible  tail  that  lay  behind, 
Reached  out  so  far  as  it  twisted  and  twined, 
That  a  couple  of  dwarfs,  of  wondrous  strength, 
Bore,  when  he  travelled,  its  horrible  length, 

Like  a  Duke's  at  the  Coronation. 
His  mouth  had  lost  one  ivory  tooth, 
Or  the  Dragon  liad  been,  in  very  sooth, 

No  insignificant  charmer ; 

And  that alas !  he  had  ruined  it, 

Wlien  on  new-year's  day,  in  a  hungry  fit, 
He  swallowed  a  tough  and  a  terrible  bit — 

Sir  Lob,  in  his  brazen  armour. 
Swift  and  light  were  his  steps  on  the  ground. 
Strong  and  smooth  was  his  hide  around. 
For  the  weapons  which  the  peasants  flung 
Ever  unfelt  or  unheeded  rung, 

Arrow  and  stone  and  spear. 
As  snow  o'er  Cynthia's  window  flits. 
Or  raillery  of  twenty  wits 

On  a  fool's  unshrinking  ear. 

In  many  a  battle  the  beast  had  been, 
Many  a  blow  he  had  felt  and  given : 

Sir  Digore  came  with  a  menacing  mien, 
But  ho  sent  Sir  Digore  straight  to  Heaven ; 

Stiff  and  stour  were  the  arms  he  wore. 
Huge  the  sword  he  was  wont  to  clasp  ; 


LILLIAN.  65 

But  tho  sword  was  little,  the  armour  brittle, 
Locked  in  the  coil  of  the  Dragon's  grasp. 

He  came  on  Sir  Florice  of  Sesseny  Land, 

Pretty  Sir  Florice  from  over  the  sea. 
And  smashed  him  all  as  he  stepped  on  the  sand, 

Cracking  his  head  like  a  nut  from  the  tree. 
No  one  till  now  had  found,  I  trow. 

Any  thing  good  in  the  scented  youth, 
Who  had   taken  much  pains  to  be  rid  of  his 
brains. 

Before  they   were   sought  by  the  Dragon's 
tooth. 

He  came  on  the  Sheriff  of  Hereford, 

As  he  sat  him  down  to  his  Sunday  dinner ; 
And  the  Sheriff  he  spoke  but  this  brief  word, 

"  St.  Francis  be  good  to  a  corpulent  sinner!" 
Fat  was  he,  as  a  Sheriff  might  be, 

From  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  tip  of  his 
toe; 
But  the  Sheriff  was  small,  or  nothing  at  all, 

"When  put  in  the  jaws  of  the  Dragon  foe. 

He  came  on  the  Abbot  of  Arnondale, 

As  he  kneeled  him  down  to  his  morning  devo- 
tion ; 

But  the  Dragon  he  shuddered,  and  turned  his  tail 
About,  "  with  short  uneasy  motion." 


66  LILLIAN. 

Iron  and  steel,  for  an  early  meal, 

He  stomached  with  ease,  or  the  Muse  is  a  liar ; 
But  out  of  all  question,  he  failed  in  digestion, 

K  ever  he  ventured  to  swallow  a  friar ! 


Monstrous  brute !— his  dread  renown 

Made  whispers  and  terrors  in  country  and  town ; 

Nothing  was  babbled  by  boor  or  knight 

But  tales  of  his  civic  appetite. 

At  last,  as  after  dinner  he  lay, 

Hid  from  the  heat  of  the  solar  ray 

By  boughs  that  had  woven  an  arbour  shady, 

He  chanced  to  fall  in  with  the  Headless  Lady. 

Headless  ?  alas!  'twas  a  piteous  gibe  ; 

I'll  drink  Aganippe,  and  then  describe. 

Her  father  had  been  a  stout  yeoman, 
Fond  of  his  jest  and  fond  of  his  can. 

But  never  o'er-wise ; 
And  once,  when  his  cups  had  been  many  and 

deep. 
He  met  with  a  dragon  fast  asleep, — 

'Twas  a  Fairy  in  disguise. 
In  a  dragon's  form  she  had  ridden  the  storm, 

The  realm  of  the  sky  invading ; 
Sir  Grahame's  ship  was  stout  and  fast. 
But  the  Fairy  came  on  the  rushing  blast. 
And  shivered  the  sails,  and  shivered  the  mast, 


LILLIAN, 


67 


And  down  went  the  gallant  ship  at  last, 

With  all  the  crew  and  lading. 
And  the  Fay  laughed  out  to  see  the  rout, 

As  the  last  dim  hope  was  fading ; 
And  this  she  had  done  in  a  love  of  fun, 

And  a  love  of  masquerading. 
She  lay  that  night  in  a  sunny  vale, 

And  the  yeoman  found  her  sleeping ; 
Fiercely  he  smote  her  glittering  tail, 
But  oh  !  his  courage  began  to  fail, 

When  the  Fairy  rose  all  weeping : 
"Thou  hast  lopped,"  she  said,  "beshrew  thine 

hand ! 
The  fairest  foot  in  Fairy-laud ! 

"  Thou  hast  an  infant  in  thine  home  ! — 
Never  to  her  shall  reason  come, 

For  weeping  or  for  wail, 
Till  she  shall  ride  with  a  fearless  face 

On  a  living  dragon's  scale, 
And  fondly  clasp  to  her  heart's  embrace 

A  living  dragon's  tail." 
The  Fairy's  form  from  his  shuddering  sight 
Floated  away  in  a  stream  of  light. 

Disconsolate  that  youth  departed. 

Disconsolate  and  poor; 
And  wended,  chill  and  broken-hearted. 

To  his  cottage  on  the  moor ; 


68  LILLIAN. 

Sadh^  and  silently  he  knelt 

His  lonely  hearth,  beside ; 
Alas  !  how  desolate  he  felt, 

As  he  hid  his  face,  and  cried. 
The  cradle  where  the  babe  was  laid 

Stood  in  its  own  dear  nook. 
But  long — how  long  ! — he  knelt,  and  prayed, 

And  did  not  dare  to  look. 
He  looked  at  last ;  his  joy  was  there, 
And  slumbering  with  that  placid  air 
"Which  only  babes  and  angels  wear. 
Over  the  cradle  he  leaned  his  head : 
The  cheek  was  warm,  and  the  lip  was  red ; 
And  he  felt,  he  felt,  as  he  saw  her  he, 
A  hope — v/hich  was  a  mockery. 
The  babe  unclosed  her  eye's  pale  lid  : — 
Why  doth  he  start  from  the  sight  it  hid  ? 
He  hath  seen  in  the  dim  and  fitful  ray, 
That  the  light  of  the  soul  hath  gone  away  ! 
Sigh  nor  prayer  he  muttered  there. 
In  mute  and  motionless  despair. 
But  he  laid  him  down  beside  his  child. 
And  Lillian  saw  him  die — and  smiled. 
The  mother  ?  she  had  gone  before ; 
And  in  the  cottage  on  the  moor, 
With  none  to  watch  her  and  caress, 
No  arm  to  clasp,  no  voice  to  bless, 
The  witless  child  grew  up  alone. 
And  made  all  Nature's  book  her  own. 


LILLIAN.  69 

If,  in  the  warm  and  passionate  hour 
When  Eeason  sleeps  in  Fancy's  bower, 
If  thou  hast  ever,  ever  felt 
A  dream  of  delicate  beauty  melt 

Into  the  heart's  recess, 
Seen  by  the  soul,  and  seen  by  the  mind, 

But  indistinct  its  loveliness, 
Adored,  and  not  defined; 
A  bright  creation,  a  shadowy  ray, 
Fading  and  flitting  in  mist  away. 
Nothing  to  gaze  on,  and  nothing  to  hear, 
But  something  to  cheat  the  eye  and  ear 
With  a  fond  conception  and  joy  of  both, 
So  that  you  might,  that  hour,  be  loath 
To  change  for  Some  one's  sweetest  kiss 
Tliy  vision  of  unenduring  bliss. 
Or  lose  for  Some  one's  sweetest  tone 
The  murmur  thou  drinkest  all  alone — 
If  such  a  vision  hath  ever  been  thine. 
Thou  hast  a  heart  that  may  look  on  mine ! 

For  oh !  the  light  of  my  saddened  theme 

Was  like  to  naught  but  a  Poet's  dream, 

Or  the  forms  that  come  on  the  twilight's  wmg, 

Shaped  by  the  soul's  imagining. 

Beautiful  shade,  with  her  tranquil  air, 

And  her  thin  white  arm,  and  her  flowing  hair, 

And  the  light  of  her  eye  so  coldly  obscure. 

And  the  hue  of  her  cheek  so  pale  and  pure ! 


70  LILLIAN. 

Reason  and  thought  sh-e  had  never  known, 
Her  heart  was  as  cold  as  a  heart  of  stone ; 
So  you  might  guess  from  her  eyes'  dim  rays, 
And  her  idiot  laugh,  and  her  vacant  gaze. 
She  wandered  about  all  lone  on  the  heather, 
She  and  the  wild  heath-birds  together ; 
For  Lillian  seldom  spoke  or  smiled. 
But  she  sang  as  sweet  as  a  little  child. 
Into  her  song  her  dreams  would  throng, 

Silly,  and  wild,  and  out  of  place  ; 
And  yet  that  wild  and  roving  song 

Entranced  the  soul  in  its  desolate  grace. 
And  hence  the  story  had  ever  run 
That  the  fairest  of  dames  was  a  Headless  One. 

The  pilgrim  in  his  foreign  weeds 

Would  falter  in  his  prayer ; 
And  the  monk  would  pause  with  his  half-told 
beads 

To  breathe  a  blessing  there  ; 
The  knight  would  loose  his  visor-clasp, 
And  drop  the  rein  from  his  nerveless  grasp, 
And  pass  his  hand  across  his  brow 
With  a  sudden  sigh,  and  a  whispered  vow, 
And  marvel  Flattery's  tale  was  told, 
From  a  lip  so  young,  to  an  ear  so  cold. 

She  had  seen  her  sixteenth  winter  out. 
When  she  met  with  the  beast  I  was   singing 
about : 


LILLIAN.  Yl 

The  Dragon,  I  told  you,  had  dined  that  day; 

So  he  gazed  upon  her  as  he  lay, 

Earnestly  looking,  and  looking  long, 

"With  his  appetite  weak,  and  his  wonder  strong. 

Silent  he  lay  in  his  motionless  coil ; 

And  tlie  song  of  the  Lady  was  sweet  the  while : — 

"IsTonny  nonny! — I  hear  it  float. 
Innocent  bird,  thy  tremulous  note : 
It  comes  from  thy  home  in  the  eglantine, 
And  I  stay  this  idle  song  of  mine, 
Nonny  nonny  ! — to  listen  to  thine ! 

"•ISTonny  nonny! — 'Lillian  sings 
The  sweetest  of  all  living  things!' 
So  Sir  Launcelot  averred ; 
But  surely  Sir  Launcelot  never  heard 
Nonny  nonny! — the  natural  bird!" 

The  Dragon  he  lay  in  mute  amaze. 

Till  something  of  kindness  crept  into  his  gaze ; 

He  drew  the  flames  of  his  nostrils  in. 

He  veiled  his  claws  with  their  speckled  skin. 

He  curled  his  fangs  in  a  hideous  smile ; 

And  the  songof  the  Lady  was  sweet  the  while: — 

"  Nonny  nonny ! — who  shall  tell 
Where  the  summer  breezes  dwell? 
Lightly  and  brightly  they  breathe  and  blow, 


72  LILLIAN. 

But  whence  they  come  and  whither  they  go, 
Nonuy  nonny ! — who  shall  know  ? 

"  Nonny  nonny ! — I  hear  your  tone, 
But  I  feel  ye  cannot  read  mine  own ; 
And  I  lift  my  neck  to  your  fond  embraces, 
But  who  hath  seen  in  your  resting-places, 
Nonny  nonny! — your  beautiful  faces?" 

A  moment !  and  the  Dragon  came 

Crouching  down  to  the  peerless  dame. 

With  his  fierce  red  eye  so  fondly  shining, 

And  his  terrible  tail  so  meekly  twining, 

And  the  scales  on  his  huge  limbs  gleaming  o'er, 

Gayer  than  ever  they  gleamed  before. 

She  had  won  his  heart,  while  she  charmed  his  ear, 

And  Lillian  smiled,  and  knew  no  fear. 

And  see,  she  mounts  between  his  wings 

(Never  a  queen  had  a  gaudier  throne). 
And  fairy-like  she  sits  and  sings. 

Guiding  the  steed  with  a  touch  and  a  tone. 
Aloft,  aloft  in  the  clear  blue  ether. 
The  dame  and  the  Dragon  they  soared  together ; 
He  bore  her  away  on  the  breath  of  the  gale — 
The  two  little  dwarfs  held  fast  by  the  tail. 

Fanny !  a  pretty  group  for  drawing ; 
My  dragon  like  a  war-horse  pawing, 


LILLIAN. 


My  dwarfs  in  a  friglit,  and  my  girl  in  an  attitude. 
Patting  the  beast  in  her  soulless  gratitude. 
There ;  you  may  try  it  if  you  will, 
While  I  drink  my  coffee,  and  nib  my  quili. 


KND    OF   UA.KTO    1 


7i  LILLIAN 


LILLIAN. 


CANTO   U. 


The  sun  shone  out  on  hill  and  grove ; 

It  was  a  glorious  flay; 
The  lords  and  the  ladies  were  making  love, 

And  the  clowns  were  making  hay ; 
But  the  Town  of  Brentford  marked  with  wonder 
A  lightning  in  the  sky,  and  thunder, 
And  thinking  ('twas  a  thinking  town) 
Some  prodigy  was  coming  down, 
A  mighty  mob  to  Merlin  went 
To  learn  the  cause  of  tMs  portent ; 
And  he,  a  wizard  sage,  but  comical. 
Looked  through  his  glasses  astronomical, 
And  puzzled  every  foolish  sconce 
By  this  oracular  response  : — 

'■'■Now  the  Slayer  doth  not  slay, 
Weahness  flings  her  fear  away, 
Power  lears  the  Powerless ; 
Pity  rides  the  Pitiless ; 
Are  ye  Lovers  ?  are  ye  hravc  ? 
Hear  ye  this,  and  seek,  and  save  ! 


LILLIAN.  75 

He  that  would  toed  the  loveliest  maid, 

Must  don  the  stoutest  mail, 
For  the  Rider  shall  never  he  sound  in  the 
head, 

Till  the  Ridden  le  maimed  in  the  tail. 
TTey,  diddle  diddle  !  the  cat  and  the  fiddle  ! 
None  tut  a  Lover  can  read  me  my  riddW 

How  kind  art  thou,  and  oh !  how  mighty, 
Cupid !  thou  son  of  Aphrodite ! 
By  thy  sole  aid,  in  old  romance. 
Heroes  and  heroines  sing  and  dance; 
Of  cane  and  rod  there's  little  need ; 
They  never  learn  to  write  or  read ; 
Yet  often,  by  thy  sudden  light. 
Enamoured  dames  contrive  to  write ; 
And  often,  in  the  hour  of  need. 
Enamoured  youths  contrive  to  read. — 
I  make  a  small  digression  here : 
I  merely  mean  to  make  it  clear, 
That  if  Sir  Eglamour  had  wit 
To  read  and  construe,  bit  by  bit, 
All  that  the  wizard  had  expressed, 
And  start  conjectures  on  the  rest, 
Cupid  had  sharpened  his  discerning. 
The  little  god  of  love, — and  learning. 
He  revolved  in  his  bed  what  Merlin  had  said. 
Though  Merlin  had  laboured  to  scatter  a  veil 
on't ; 


76  LILLIAN. 

And  found  out  the  sense  of  the  tail  and  the  head, 
Though  none  of  his  neighhours  could  luaJfe 
head  or  tail  on't. 

Sir  Eglamour  was  one  o'  the  best 

Of  Arthur's  table  round  ; 
lie  never  set  his  spear  in  rest, 

But  a  dozen  went  to  the  ground. 
Clear  and  wai-m  as  the  lightning-flame, 
His  valour  from  his  father  came, 

His  cheek  was  like  his  mother's ; 
And  his  hazel  eye  more  clearly  shone 
Than  any  I  ever  have  looked  upon. 

Save  Fanny's, — and  two  others  I 

With  his  spur  so  bright,  and  his  rein  so  light, 

And  his  steed  so  swift  and  ready, 
And  his  skilful  sword,  to  wound  or  ward, 

And  his  spear  so  sure  and  steady, 
ITe  bore  him  like  a  British  knight 

From  London  to  Penzance, 
Avenged  all  weeping  women's  slight, 

And  made  all  giants  dance. 
And  he  had  travelled  far  from  home, 

Had  worn  a  mask  at  Venice, 
Had  kissed  the  Bishop's  toe  at  Eome, 

And  beat  the  French  at  tennis  : 
Hence  he  had  many  a  courtly  play. 

And  jeerings  and  gibes  in  plenty, 


LILLIAN.  Y7 

And  ho  wrote  more  rhymes  in  a  single  day 
Tlian  Byron  or  Bowles  in  twenty. 

He  clasped  to  his  side  his  sword  of  pride. 
His  sword,  whose  native  polish  vied 

With  many  a  gory  stain  ; 
Keen  and  bright  as  a  meteor-light ; 
But  not  so  keen,  and  not  so  bright, 

As  Moultrie's  jesting  vein. 
And  his  shield  he  bound  his  arm  around, 
His  shield,  where  glowing  saffron  wound 

About  a  field  of  blue ; 
Heavy  and  thick  as  a  wall  of  brick, 
]^ut  not  so  heavy  and  not  so  thick 

As  the  Edinburgh  Eeview. 
With  a  smile  and  a  jest  he  set  out  on  the  quest, 

Clad  in  his  stoutest  mail, 
With  his  helm  of  the  best,  and  his  spear  in  the 
rest. 

To  flay  the  Dragon's  tail. 

The  warrior  travelled  wearily, 

Many  a  league  and  many  a  mile ; 
And  the  Dragon  sailed  in  the  clear  blue  sky; 

And  the  song  of  the  Lady  was  sweet  the  while : 
"  My  steed  and  I,  my  steed  and  I, 
On  in  the  path  of  the  winds  we  fly, 
And  I  chase  the  planets  that  wander  at  even, 
And  bathe  my  hair  in  the  dews  of  heaven ! 
Voi.  L— 6 


78  LILLIAN,      - 

Beautiful  stars,  so  thin  and  briglit, 

Exquisite  visions  of  vapour  and  light, 

I  love  ye  all  with  a  sister's  love, 

And  I  rove  with  ye  wherever  ye  rove, 

j\jid  I  drink  your  changeless,  endless  song, 

The  music  ye  make  as  ye  wander  along  I 

Oh !  let  me  be,  as  one  of  ye. 

Floating  for  aye  on  your  liquid  sea ; 

And  I'll  feast  with  you  on  the  purest  rain, 

To  cool  my  weak  and  wildered  brain, 

And  I'll  give  you  the  loveliest  lock  of  my  liair 

For  a  little  spot  in  your  realm  of  air!" 

The  Dragon  came  down  when  the  morn  shone 
bright. 

And  slept  in  tlie  beam  of  the  sun ; 
Fatigued,  no  doubt,  with  his  airy  flight. 

As  I  with  my  jingling  one. 
With  such  a  monstrous  adversary 
Sir  Eglamour  was  far  too  waiy 

To  think  of  bandying  knocks ; 
He  came  on  his  foe  as  still  as  death, 
Walking  on  tiptoe,  and  holding  his  breath, 
And  instead  of  drawing  his  sword  from  his  sheath, 

He  drew  a  pepper-box ! 
The  pepper  was  as  hot  as  flame, 

The  box  of  a  wondrous  size ; 
Ho  gazed  one  moment  on  the  dnnie. 
Then,  with  a  sure  and  a  steady  aim, 


LILLIAN,  79 

Full  in  the  Dragon's  truculent  phiz 
lie  flung  the  scorching  powder — whiz ! 

And  dai'kened  both  his  ej^es ! 
Have  you  not  seen  a  little  kite 

Eushing  away  on  its  paper  wing 

To  mix  with  the  wild  winds'  quarrelling? 
Up  it  soars  with  an  arrowy  flight, 

Till,  weak  and  unsteady, 

Torn  by  the  eddy, 
It  dashes  to  earth  from  its  hideous  height. 
Such  was  the  rise  of  the  beast  in  his  pain. 
Such  was  his  falling  to  earth  again ; 
Upward  he  shot,  but  he  saw  not  his  path, 
Blinded  with  pepper,  and  blinded  with  wrath ; 
One  struggle — one  vain  one — of  pain  and  emotion, 
And  he  shot  back  again,   "like  a  bird  of  the 

ocean!" 
Long  he  lay  in  a  trance  that  day, 

And  alas !  he  did  not  wake  before 
The  cruel  Knight,  with  skill  and  might, 

Had  lopped  and  flayed  the  tail  he  wore. 


Twelve  hours,  by  the  chime,  he  lay  in  his  slimo, 

More  utterly  blind,  I  trow. 
Than  a  Polypheme  in  the  olden  time. 

Or  a  politician  now. 
He  sped,  as  soon  as  he  could  see. 
To  the  Payiiim  bowers  of  Rosalie ; 


80  LILLIAN. 

For  there  the  Dragon  had  hope  to  cure, 

By  the  tinkling  rivulets  ever  pure, 

By  the  glowing  sun,  and  fragrant  gale. 

His  wounded  honoui-, — and  wounded  tail. 

He  hied  him  away  to  the  perfumed  spot ; 

The  little  dwarfs  clung — where  the  tail  was  not ! 

The  damsel  gazed  on  that  young  Knight, 
With  something  of  terror,  hut  more  of  delight ; 
Much  she  admired  the  gauntlets  he  Avore, 
Much  the  device  that  his  huckler  bore, 
Much  the  feathers  that  danced  on  his  crest. 
But  most  the  baldric  that  shone  on  his  breast. 
She  thought  the  Dragon's  pilfered  scale 
Was  fairer  far  than  the  warrior's  mail. 
And  she  lifted  it  up  with  her  weak  white  arm. 
Unconscious  of  its  hidden  charm. 
And  round  her  throbbing  bosom  tied, 
In  mimicry  of  warlike  pride. 

Gone  is  the  spell  that  bound  her ! 
The  talisman  hath  touched  her  heart. 
And  she  leaps  with  a  fearful  and  fawn-like  start 
As  the  shades  of  glamoury  depart ; 

Strange  thoughts  are  glimmering  round  her ; 
Deeper  and  deeper  her  cheek  is  glowing, 
Quicker  and  quicker  her  breath  is  flowing. 
And  her  eye  gleams  out  from  its  long  dark  lashes 
Fast  and  full,  unnatural  flashes ; 


LILLIAN.  81 

For  hurriedly  and  wild 
Doth  Eeason  pour  her  hidden  treasures, 
Of  human  griefs,  and  human  pleasures. 

Upon  her  new-found  child. 
And  "Oh!"  she  saith,  "my  spirit  doth  seem 
To  have  risen  to-day  from  a  pleasant  dream  ; 
A  long,  long  dream !  but  I  feel  it  breaking ; 
Painfully  sweet  is  the  throb  of  waking:" 
And  then  she  laughed,  and  wept  again ; 
While,  gazing  on  her  heart's  first  rain. 
Bound  in  his  tui-n  by  a  magic  chain, 

The  silent  youth  stood  there : 
Never  had  either  been  so  blest ; — 
You  that  are  young  may  picture  the  rest, 

You  that  are  young  and  fair. 
Never  before,  on  this  warm  land. 
Came  Love  and  Reason  hand  in  hand. 

"When  you  were  blest,  in  childliood's  years, 
With  the  brightest  hopes,  and  the  lightest  fears, 
Have  you  not  wandered,  in  your  dream. 
Where  a  greener  glow  was  on  the  ground, 
And  a  clearer  breath  in  the  air  around. 
And  a  purer  life  in  the  gay  sunbeam, 
And  a  tremulous  murmur  in  every  tree. 
And  a  motionless  sleep  on  the  quiet  sea  ? 
And  liave  you  not  lingered,  lingered  still, 
All  unfettered  in  thought  and  will, 
A  fair  and  clierished  boy ; 


82  LILLIAIT. 

Until  you  felt  it  pain  to  part 

From  the  wild  creations  of  your  art, 

Until  your  young  and  innocent  lieart 

Seemed  bursting  with  its  joy  ? 
And  then,  oh  then,  hath  your  waking  oye 
Opened  in  all  its  ecstasy. 
And  seen  your  mother  leaning  o'er  you, 
The  loved  and  loving  one  that  bore  you, 
Giving  her  own,  her  fond  caress, 
And  looking  her  eloquent  tenderness? — 
"Was  it  not  heaven  to  fly  from  the  scene 
"Where  the  heart  in  the  vision  of  night  had  been, 
And  drink,  in  one  o'erflowing  kiss. 
Your  deep  reality  of  bliss  ? 
Such  was  Lillian's  passionate  madness, 
Such  the  calm  of  her  waking  gladness. 

Enough !  my  Tale  is  all  too  long : 
Fair  Children,  if  the  trifling  song, 

That  flows  for  you  to-night, 
Hath  stolen  from  you  one  gay  laugh. 
Or  given  your  quiet  hearts  to  quaff 

One  cup  of  young  deUght, 
Pay  ye  the  Rhymer  for  his  toils 
In  the  coinage  of  your  golden  smiles, 
And  treasure  up  his  idle  verse 
"With  the  stories  ye  loved  from  the  lips  of  your 
nurse. 


COG.  S3 


GOG. 

"  A  most  delicate  monster  I" — The  Tempest. 
CANTO   I. 

King  Arthur,  as  the  legends  sing, 

Was  a  right  brave  and  merry  king, 

And  had  a  wondrous  reputation 

Through  this  right  brave  and  merry  nation. 

His  ancient  face,  and  ancient  clothes, 

His  tables  round,  and  rounder  oaths. 

His  crown  and  cup,  his  feasts  and  fights. 

His  pretty  Queen  and  valiant  knights, 

"Would  make  me  up  the  raciest  scene 

That  is,  or  will  be,  or  has  been. 

These  points,  and  others  not  a  few, 

Of  great  importance  to  the  view, 

As,  how  King  Arthur  valued  woman. 

And  how  King  Arthur  thrashed  the  Roman, 

And  how  King  Arthur  built  a  hall, 

And  how  King  Arthur  played  at  ball, 

I'll  have  the  prudence  to  omit. 

Since  brevity's  the  soul  of  wit. 

Oh !  Arthur  s  days  were  blessed  days, 

"Wlien  all  was  wit,  and  worth,  and  praise, 

And  planting  thrust's,  and  planting  oaks, 

And  cracking  nuts,  and  cracking  jokes, 


84.  GOG. 

And  turning  out  the  toes,  and  tiltings, 

And  jousts,  and  journeyings,  andjiltings. 

Lord !  what  a  stern  and  stunning  rout, 

As  tall  Adventure  strode  about, 

Eang  through  the  land!  for  there  were  duels 

For  love  of  dames,  and  love  of  jewels ; 

And  steeds,  that  carried  knight  and  prince 

As  never  steeds  have  carried  since ; 

And  heavy  lords,  and  heavy  lances ; 

And  strange,  unfashionable  dances  ; 

And  endless  bustle  and  turmoil 

In  vain  disputes  for  fame  or  spoil. 

Manners  and  roads  were  very  rough ; 

Armour  and  beeves  were  very  tough ; 

And  then — the  brightest  figures  far 

In  din  or  dinner,  peace  or  war — 

Dwarfs  sang  to  ladies  in  their  teens, 

And  giants  grew  as  thick  as  beans ! 

One  of  these  worthies,  in  my  verse, 
I  mean,  O  Clio !  to  rehearse : 
He  was  much  talked  of  in  his  time. 
And  sung  of  too  in  monkish  rhyme ; 
So,  lest  my  pen  should  chance  to  err, 
I'll  quote  his  ancient  chronicler. 
Thus  friar  Joseph  paints  my  hero : — 

"  Addictus  cmdibus  et  mero, 
Impcaidus^  luxuriosus^ 


(JOG.  85 

Freces^  jejuniaque  i^erosus^ 
Metum  ubique  vultu  jactans, 
Boves  ubique  manu  maotans, 
Tauros  pro  cozna  varans,  post  hos 
Lihcnter  edens pueros  tostos, 
Anglorum,  et  {nifallit  error) 
Ipsius  Regis  scepe  terror, 
Equorum  equitumque  cajitor, 
Incola  rupis,  ingens  raptor 
Episcopalium  honorum, 
Damnatus  hostis  Monachorum  /" 

Such  was  his  eulogy !     The  fact  is, 
He  had  a  most  outrageous  practice 
Of  running  riot,  bullying,  beating, 
Behaving  rudely,  killing,  eating ; 
He  wore  a  black  beard,  like  a  Jew's, 
And  stood  twelve  feet  without  his  shoes ; 
He  used  to  sleep  through  half  the  day, 
And  then  went  out  to  kill  and  slay ; 
At  night  he  drank  a  deal  of  grog. 
And  slept  again  ; — his  name  was  Goo. 

He  was  the  son  of  Gorhoduc, 

And  was  a  boy  of  monstrous  pluck ; 

For  once,  when  in  a  morning  early 

He  happened  to  be  bruising  barley, 

A  knight  came  by  with  sword  and  spear, 

And  halted  in  his  raid-career : 

The  youngster  looked  so  short  and  pliant. 


86  GOG. 

He  never  dreamed  lie  was  a  giant, 
And  so  he  pulled  up  with  a  jerk, 
And  called  young  bruiser  from  his  work ; 
"  Friend,  can  you  lead  me  by  the  rein 
To  Master  Gorboduc's  domain  ? 
I  mean  to  stop  the  country's  fears, 
And  knock  his  house  about  his  ears!" 
The  iirchin  chuckled  at  the  joke, 
And  grinned  acutely  as  he  spoke : 
"  Sir  Knight,  I'U  do  it  if  I  can ; 
Just  get  behind  me  in  my  pan ; 
I'm  off — I  stop  but  once  to  bait, 
I'll  set  you  down  before  the  gate." 
Sir  Lolly  swallowed  all  the  twang. 
He  leaped  into  the  mortar — bang ! 
And  when  he  saw  him  in  the  vessel, 
Gog  beat  his  brains  out  with  the  pestle. 

This  was  esteemed  a  clever  hit, 
And  showed  the  stripling  had  a  wit; 
Tlierefore  his  father  spared  no  arts 
To  cidtivate  such  brilliant  parts. 
No  giant  ever  went  before 
Beyond  his  "two  and  two  make  four," 
But  Gog  possessed  a  mind  gigantic, 
And  grasped  a  learning  quite  romantic. 
'Tis  certain  that  he  used  to  sport 
The  language  that  they  spoke  at  court; 
Had  something  of  a  iauntv  air. 


GOG. 

That  men  so  tall  can  seldom  wear ; 

Unless  ho  chanced  to  need  some  victuals, 

He  was  a  pleasant  match  at  skittles ; 

And  if  he  could  have  found  a  horso 

To  bear  him  through  a  single  course, 

I  think  he  might  have  brought  the  weight 

'Gainst  all  that  Britain  counted  great. 

In  physic  he  was  sage  indeed. 

He  used  to  blister  and  to  bleed, 

Made  up  strange  plasters — had  been  known 

To  amputate  or  set  a  bone, 

And  had  a  notable  device 

For  curing  colic  in  a  trice 

By  making  patients  jump  a  wall, 

And  get  a  most  salubrious  fall. 

Then  in  philosophy,  'twas  said. 

He  got  new  fancies  in  his  head ; 

Had  reckonings  of  the  sea's  profundity. 

And  dreams  about  the  earth's  rotundity  j 

In  argument  was  quite  a  Grecian, 

And  taught  the  doctrine  of  cohesion. 

This  knowledge,  as  one  often  sees. 

Softened  his  manners  by  degrees ; 

He  came  to  have  a  nicer  maw, 

And  seldom  ate  his  mutton  raw ; 

And  if  he  had  upon  his  board 

At  once  a  peasant  and  a  lord, 

He  called  tlie  lord  his  dainty  meat, 

And  had  him  devilled  for  a  treat. 


88  GOG. 

Old  Gorboduc,  the  legends  say, 
Happened  to  go  to  pot  one  day ; 
Tlie  how  and  why  remains  a  question ; 
Some  say  he  died  of  indigestion 
From  swallowing  a  little  boat 
In  drinking  dry  Sir  Toby's  moat. 
Others  assert  that  Dame  Ulrica 
(Whom  he  confined  beneath  a  beaker, 
Having  removed  her  from  her  cottage 
To  stew  her  in  a  mess  of  pottage) 
Upset  her  prison  in  the  night, 
And  played  Ulysses  out  of  spite, 
So  that  he  woke  in  great  surprise 
With  two  sharp  needles  in  his  eyes. 
Perhaps  Ulrica  may  have  lied ; 
At  all  events — the  giant  died, 
Bequeathing  to  liis  son  and  heir, 
Illustrious  Gog,  the  pious  care 
To  lord  it  o'er  his  goods  and  chattels. 
And  wield  his  club  and  fight  his  battles. 

'Twould  take  an  Iliad,  Sirs,  to  tell 
The  numerous  feats  on  fiood  and  fell, 
At  which  my  hero  tried  his  hand  ; 
He  was  the  terror  of  the  land, 
And  did  a  thousand  humorous  things, 
Fit  to  delight  the  ear  of  kings ; 
I  cull  what  I  consider  best, 
And  pass  in  silence  o'er  the  rest. 


GOG.  89 

There  was  a  Lady  sent  from  "Wales, 
With  quiet  sea,  and  favouring  gales, 
To  land  upon  the  English  shore, 
And  marry  with  Sir  Paladore. 
It  seems  she  sailed  from  Milford  Haven, 
On  board  the  Bittern,  Captain  Craven, 
And  smiles,  and  nods,  and  gratnlation, 
Attended  on  her  embarkation. 
But  when  the  ship  got  out  from  land, 
The  Captain  took  her  by  the  hand, 
And  with  a  brace  of  shocking  oaths. 
He  led  her  to  her  chest  of  clothes. 
They  paused  ! — ^lie  scratching  at  his  chin. 
As  if  much  puzzled  to  begin  : 
She  o'er  the  box  in  stupor  leaning, 
As  if  she  couldn't  guess  his  meaning. 

Then  thus  the  rogue  the  silence  broke — 

His  whiskers  wriggled  as  he  spoke : — 

"Look  out  an  extra  gown  and  shift ; 

You're  going  to  be  turned  adrift ; 

As  many  gewgaws  as  you  please. 

Only  don't  bounce  upon  your  knees ; 

It's  very  fine,  but  don't  amuse. 

And  isn't  of  the  smallest  use. 

Ho  there  !  above  !  put  down  the  boat ! — 

In  half  an  hour  you'll  be  afloat; 

I  wouldn't  have  you  lose  a  minute; — 

There — put  a  little  victuals  in  it;  — 


90  GOG. 

You  think  I'm  playing  oif  a  sham, 
But — split  my  vitals  if  I  am  I" 

Struggling  and  tears  in  vain  were  tried, 

He  hauled  her  to  the  vessel's  side, 

And  still  the  horrid  brute  ran  on. 

Exclaiming  in  ferocious  tone — 

"You  needn't  hollow  to  the  crew, 

Be  quiet,  it  will  never  do  ; — 

Pray  spare  your  breath ;  come  wind  and  weather, 

We  all  are  sworn  to  this  together ! 

Don't  talk  us  round !  'cause  why  ?   you  can't  1 — 

Oh!  sink  my  timbers  if  we  an't ! 

So — gently  ! — ^mind  your  footing — there ! 

You'll  find  the  weather  very  fair  ; 

You'd  better  keep  a  sharp  look-out, 

There  are  some  ugly  reefs  about ; 

Stay ! — what  provision  have  they  made  ye  ? 

I  wouldn't  have  ye  famished,  Lady ! 

Dick  !  lend  a  hand,  ye  staring  oaf, 

And  heave  us  down  another  loaf ; 

Here  are  two  bustards — take  'em  both  ; 

You've  got  a  famous  pot  of  broth  ; 

You'd  better  use  the  sculls — you'll  find 

You've  got  a  deuced  little  wind ; 

Now ! — don't  stand  blubbering  at  me, 

But  trim  the  boat  and  put  to  sea." — 

He  spoke !  regardless  of  her  moan, 

They  left  her  in  the  boat,  alone  I 


GOG.  91 

According  to  our  modern  creed, 
It  was  a  cruel  thing,  indeed ; 
Unless  some  villain  bribed  them  to  it, 
I  can't  conceive  what  made  them  do  it. 

It  was  a  very  cruel  thing ! — 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  king ; 
Though  it  appears  that  kings  were  then 
But  little  more  than  common  men. 
She  was  a  handsome  girl  withal. 
Well  formed,  majestic,  rather  tall ; 
She  had  dark  eyes  (I  like  them  dark), 
And  in  them  was  an  angry  spark, 
That  came,  and  went,  and  came  again, 
Like  lightning  in  the  pause  of  rain ; 
Her  robe  adorned,  but  not  concealed, 
The  shape  it  shrouded,  yet  revealed ; 
It  chanced  her  ivory  neck  was  bare, 
But  clusters  rich  of  jetty  hair 
Lay  like  a  garment  scattered  there ; 
She  had  upon  her  pale  white  brow 
A  look  of  pride,  that,  even  now 
Gazed  round  upon  her  solitude, 
Hopeless  perhaps,  but  unsubdued. 
As  if  she  thought  the  dashing  wave. 
That  swelled  beneath,  was  born  her  slave. 

She  felt  not  yet  a  touch  of  feai', 

But  didn't  know  which  way  to  steer ; 


92  GOG. 

She  thought  it  prudent  to  get  back : 
The  wind  due  east ! — she  said  she'd  tack; 
And,  though  she  had  a  tinge  of  doubt, 
She  laughed,  and  put  the  helm  about. 

The  wind  went  down — a  plaguy  calm  ; 

The  Princess  felt  a  rising  qualm  ; 

The  boat  lay  sleeping  on  the  sea, 

The  sky  looked  blue, — and  so  did  she  ! 

The  night  came  on,  and  still  the  gale 

Breathed  vainly  on  her  leather  sail ; 

It  scarcely  would  have  stirred  a  feather  : 

Heaven  and  her  hopes  grew  dark  together; 

She  slept ! — I  don't  know  how  she  diited,— 

And  light  returned  and  brought  no  wind  ; 

She  seized  her  oars  at  break  of  day, 

And  thought  she  made  a  little  way  ; 

The  skin  was  rubbed  from  off  her  thumb, 

And  she  had  no  Diaculum 

(Diaculum,  my  story  says, 

Was  not  invented  in  those  days)  ; 

At  last,  not  being  used  to  pull, 

Slie  lost  her  temper — and  her  scull. 

A  long  long  time  becalmed  she  lay ; 
And  still  untired,  from  day  to  day 
She  formed  a  thousand  anxious  wishes. 
And  bit  her  nails,  and  watched  the  fishes ; 
To  give  it  up  she  still  was  loath ; — 


GOG.  ^^ 

She  ate  the  bustards  and  the  broth ; 

And  when  they  failed,  she  sighed  and  said, 

"I'll  make  my  dinner  on  the  bread !" 

She  ate  the  bread,  and  thonght  with  sorrow, 

"There's  nothing  left  me  for  to-morrow!" 

She  pulled  her  lover's  letter  out. 
And  turned  its  vellum  leaves  about; 
It  was  a  billet-doux  of  fire. 
Scarce  thicker  than  a  modern  quire ; 
And  thus  it  ran — "  I  never  suppe 
Because  mine  Jieatte  dothe  eatte  me  uppe ; 
And  eke^  dear  Loue^  I  never  dine, 
JVor  drinke  atte  Courte  a  cuppe  of  icine; 
For  daye  and  nighte,  I  telle  you  true, 
Ifeede  uponne  my  Louefor  youy 
Alas !  that  Lady  fair,  who  long 
Had  felt  her  hunger  rather  strong 
Said  (and  her  eye  with  tears  was  dim), 
"I've  no  such  solid  love  for  him!" 
And  so  she  thought  it  might  be  better 
To  sup  upon  her  lover's  letter. 

She  ate  the  treasure  quite  or  nearly. 
From  "Beauteous  Queen ! "  to  "  yours  sincerely ;" 
She  thought  upon  her  father's  crown, 
And  then  despair  came  o'er  her! — down 
Upon  the  bottom-'boards  she  lay. 
And  veiled  her  from  the  look  of  day; 
Vol.  I.— 7 


94:  GOG. 

The  sea-birds  flapped  their  wings,  and  she 
Looked  out  npon  the  tumbling  sea ; 
And  there  was  nothing  on  its  face 
But  wide,  interminable  space. 
And  so  she  gave  a  piteous  cry — 
The  murmuring  waters  made  reply ! 

Alas  I  another  morning  came. 

And  brought  no  food ! — the  hapless  dame 

Thought,  as  she  watched  the  lifeless  sail, 

That  she  should  die  "withouten  fail;" 

Another  morn — and  not  a  whifF ! 

The  Lady  gi-ew  so  weak  and  stiff 

That  she  could  hardly  move  her  stumps ; 

At  last  she  fed  upon  her  pumps ! 

And  called  upon  her  absent  Lord, 

And  thought  of  going  overboard  : 

As  the  dusk  evening  veiled  the  sky, 

She  said,  "  I'm  ready  now  to  die !" 

She  saw  the  dim  light  fade  away, 

And  fainted,  as  she  kneeled  to  pray. 

I  sing  not  where  and  how  the  boat 
With  its  pale  load  contrived  to  float. 
Nor  how  it  struck  off  Hartland  Point, 
And  'gan  to  leak  at  every  joint; 
'Twill  be  enough,  I  think,  to  tell  ye 
Linda  was  shaken  to  a  jelly, 
And  when  she  woke  from  her  long  sleep, 


GOG.  95 

Was  lying  in  the  Giant's  keep, 
While  at  a  distance,  like  a  log, 
Iler  cajitor  snored — prodigious  Gog  I 

He  spared  as  yet  his  captive's  life ; 

She  Avasn't  ready  for  the  knife, 

For  toil,  and  famine,  and  the  sun 

Had  worn  her  to  a  skeleton ; 

He  kept  her  carefully  in  view, 

And  fed  her  for  a  week  or  two ; 

Then,  in  a  sudden  hungry  freak, 

He  felt  her  ann,  and  neck,  and  cheek. 

And  being  rather  short  of  meat. 

Cried  out  that  she  was  fit  to  eat. 

The  monster  saw  the  bright  dark  eye 

That  met  his  purpose  fearlessly ; 

He  saw  the  form  that  did  not  quail, 

He  saw  the  look  that  did  not  fail. 

And  the  white  arm  that  tranquil  lay. 

And  never  stirred  to  stop  or  stay ; 

He  changed  his  mind, — threw  down  the  kiiifo. 

And  swore  that  she  should  be  his  wife. 

Linda,  like  many  a  modern  Miss, 
Began  to  veer  about  at  this ; 
She  feared  not  roasting!  but  a  ring ! — 
0  Lord,  'twas  quite  another  thing ; 
She'd  rather  far  be  fried,  than  tied. 
And  make  a  sausage,  than  a  bride ; 


96  GOG. 

She  had  no  hand  at  argument, 

And  so  she  tried  to  circumvent.* 

"My  Lord,"  said  she,  "I  know  a  plaster, 

The  which  before  my  sad  disaster 

I  kept  most  carefully  in  store 

For  my  own  knight,  Sir  Paladore ; 

It  is  a  mixture  mild  and  thin ; 

But  when  'tis  spread  upon  the  skin, 

It  makes  a  surface  white  as  snow 

Sword-proof  thenceforth  from  top  to  toe ; 

I've  sworn  to  wed  with  none,  my  Lord, 

Who  can  he  harmed  by  human  sword. 

The  ointment  shall  be  yours !  I'll  make  it, 

Mash  it  and  mix  it,  rub  and  bake  it ; 

You  look  astonished ! — you  shall  see, 

And  try  its  power  upon  me." 

She  bruised  some  herbs ;  to  make  them  hot 
She  put  them  in  the  Giant's  pot ; 
Some  mystic  word  she  uttered  there. 
But  whether  they  were  charm  or  prayer 
The  convent  legend  hath  not  said ; 
A  little  of  the  salve  she  spread 


'  The  latter  part  of  Linda's  history 
In  Ariosto's  work  is  an  ingredien*, ; 
I  can't  imagine  how  my  monks  and  he 

Happened  to  hit  upon  the  same  expedient : 
You'll  find  it  in  "  Orlando  Fnrioso;" 
But  Mr.  Hoole's  translation  is  but  so  so. 


000.  97 

Upon  liei-  neck,  and  then  she  stood 
In  reverential  attitude, 
With  head  bent  down,  and  lips  compressed, 
And  hands  enfolded  on  her  breast ; 
"Strike!"  and  the  stroke  in  thunder  fell 
Full  on  the  neck  that  met  it  well ; 
"Strike!"  the  red  blood  started  out, 
Like  water  from  a  water-spout ; 
A  moment's  space — and  down  it  sunk, 
That  headless,  pale,  and  quivering  trunk. 
And  the  small  head  with  its  gory  wave 
Flew  in  wild  eddies  round  the  cave. 

You  think  I  shouldn't  laugh  at  this ; 
You  know  not  that  a  scene  of  bliss 
To  close  my  song,  is  yet  in  store ; 
For  Merlin  to  Sir  Paladore 
The  head  and  trunk  in  air  conveyed. 
And  spoke  some  magic  words,  and  made, 
By  one  brief  fillip  of  his  wand. 
The  happiest  pair  in  all  the  land. 

The  Giant — but  I  think  I've  done 
Enough  of  him  for  Canto  One. 


END    OF   CANTO   I. 


98  GOO. 


The  morn  is  laughing  in  the  sky, 
The  sun  hath  risen  jocundly, 
Brightly  the  dancing  beam  hath  shone 
On  the  cottage  of  clay  and  the  abbey  of  stone ; 
As  on  the  redolent  air  they  float. 
The  songs  of  the  birds  have  a  gayer  note, 
And  the  fall  of  the  waters  hath  breathed  around 
A  purer  breath  and  a  sweeter  sound ; 
And  why  is  Nature  so  richly  dressed 
In  the  flowery  garb  she  loveth  best? 
Peasant  and  monk  will  tell  you  the  tale ! 
There  is  a  wedding  in  Nithys-dale. 

With  his  green  vest  around  him  flung, 
His  bugle  o'er  his  shoulders  hung, 
And  roses  blushing  in  his  hair, 
The  Minstrel-Boy  is  waiting  there  I 
O'er  his  young  cheek  and  earnest  brow 
Pleasure  hath  spread  a  warmer  glow, 
And  love  his  fervid  look  huth  dight 
In  something  of  ethereal  light : 
And  still  the  Minstrel's  pale  blue  eye 
Is  looking  out  impatiently 
To  see  his  glad  and  tender  bride 
Come  dancing  o'er  the  hillock's  side; 


GOG. 


99 


For  look !  the  sun's  all-clieering  ray- 
Shines  proudly  on  a  joyous  day; 
And,  ere  his  setting,  young  Le  Fraile 
Shall  wed  the  Lily  of  Nithys-dale. 

A  moment,  and  he  saw  her  come, 

That  maiden,  from  her  latticed  home, 

"With  eyes  all  love,  and  lips  apart, 

And  faltering  step,  and  beating  heart. 

She  came,  and  joined  her  cheek  to  his 

In  one  prolonged  and  rapturous  kiss, 

And  while  it  thrilled  through  licart  aud  limb 

The  world  was  nought  to  her  or  him ! 

Fair  was  the  boy ;  a  woman's  grace 

Beamed  o'er  his  figure  and  his  face ; 

Ilis  red  lips  had  a  maiden's  pout. 

And  his  light  eyes  looked  sweetly  out. 

Scattering  a  thousand  vivid  flashes 

Beneath  their  long  and  jetty  lashes ; — 

And  she,  the  still  and  timid  bride 

That  clung  so  fondly  to  his  side, 

Might  well  have  seemed,  to  Fancy's  sight, 

Some  slender  thing  of  air  or  light ! 

So  white  an  arm,  so  pale  a  cheek, 

A  look  so  eloquently  meek, 

A  neck  of  such  a  marble  hue, 

An  eye  of  such  transparent  blue, 

Could  never,  never,  take  their  birth 

From  parentage  of  solid  eartli ! 


100  GOG. 

He  that  had  searched  fair  England  round 
A  lovelier  pair  had  never  found 
Than  that  Minstrel-Boy,  the  young  Le  Fraile, 
And  Alice,  the  Lily  of  ISTithys-dale  ! 

Hark !  hark !  a  sound  ! — it  flies  along. 
How  fearfully ! — a  trembling  throng 
Come  round  the  bride  in  wild  amaze, 
All  ear  and  eye  to  hear  and  gaze ; 
Again  it  came,  that  sound  of  wonder. 
Rolling  along  like  distant  thunder ; 
"  That  barbarous  growl,  that  horrid  noise— 
AYas  it  indeed  a  human  voice  ? 
The  man  must  have  a  thousand  tongues. 
And  bellows  of  brass  by  way  of  lungs!" 
Each  to  his  friend,  in  monstrous  fuss, 
The  staring  peasants  whispered  thus  : — 
''Hark!  hark!  another  echoing  shout!" 
And,  as  the  boobies  stared  about. 
Just  leaping  o'er  a  mountain's  brow. 
They  saw  the  Brute  that  made  the  row  ; 
Two  meadows  and  a  little  bog 
Di\ided  them  from  cruel  Gog ! 

Maiden  and  matron,  boy  and  man. 
You  can't  conceive  how  fast  they  ran ! 
And  as  they  scampered,  you  might  hear 
A  thousand  sounds  of  pain  and  fear. 
"I  get  so  tired." — "  "Where's  my  son?" — 
''  How  fast  the  horrid  beast  comes  on  I"' — 


GOG.  101 

"  What  plfigny  teeth  !" — "You  heard  him  roar? 

I  never  pufted  so  much  before!" 

"I  can't  imagine  what  to  do!" — 

"Whom  lias  he  caught?" — "I've  lost  my  shoe!" 

"  Oh  !  I'm  a  sinful"—"  Father  Joe, 

Do  just  absolve  me  as  we  go !" 

"Absolve  you  here?  pray  hold  your  pother; 

I  wouldn't  do  it  for  my  mother  ! 

A  pretty  time  to  stop  and  shrive, 

Zounds,  we  shall  all  be  broiled  alive ! 

I  feel  the  spit!" — "Nay,  Father,  nay. 

Don't  talk  in  such  a  horrid  way  !"— 

"  0  mighty  Love,  to  thee  I  bow ! 

Oh  !  give  me  wings,  and  save  me  now !" — 

"A  fig  for  Love  !"— "Don't  talk  of  figs! 

He'll  stick  us  all  like  sucking  pigs. 

Or  skin  us  like  a  dish  of  eels''' — 

"Eun — run — ^Iie's  just  upon  your  heels!" — 

"  I  promise  the  Abbey  a  silver  cup. 

Holy  St.  Jerome,  trip  him  up!" — 

"I  promise  the  Abbey  a  silver  crown  ! 

Holy  St.  Jerome,  knock  him  down!" — 

The  Monster  came,  and  singled  out 

The  tenderest  bit  in  all  the  rout ; 

Spite  of  her  weeping  and  her  charms, 

He  tore  her  from  her  lover's  arms : 

Woe  for  that  hapless  Minstrel-Boy! 

Where  is  his  pride — his  hope — his  joy? 

His  eye  is  wet,  his  cheek  is  pale ; 

He  hath  lost  the  Lily  of  Nithys-dale! 


102  GOG. 

It  chanced  that  day  two  travelling  folk 

Had  spread  their  cloth  beneath  au  oak, 

And  sat  them  gayly  down  to  dine 

On  good  fat  buck  and  ruddy  wine. 

One  was  a  Friar,  fat  and  sleek, 

With  pimpled  nose  and  rosy  cheek, 

And  belly,  whose  capacious  paunch 

Told  tales  of  many  a  buried  hauncli. 

He  was  no  Stoic! — In  his  eye 

Frolic  fought  hard  with  gravity : 

And  though  he  strove  in  conversation 

To  talk  as  best  beseemed  his  station, 

Yet  did  he  make  some  little  slips ; 

And  in  the  corners  of  his  lips 

There  were  some  sly  officious  dimples, 

Which  spake  no  love  for  roots  and  simj^les. 

The  other  was  a  hardy  Knight, 

Caparisoned  for  instant  fight ; 

You  might  have  deemed  him  framed  of  stone, 

So  huge  he  was  of  limb  and  bone ; 

His  short  black  hair,  unmixed  with  gray, 

Curled  closely  on  his  forehead  lay; 

His  brow  was  swarthy,  and  a  scar, 

Not  planted  there  in  recent  war, 

Had  drawn  one  long  and  blushing  streak 

Over  the  darkness  of  his  cheek; 

The  warrior's  voice  was  full  and  bold, 

His  gorgeous  arms  were  rich  with  gold  ; 

But  weaker  shoulders  soon  would  fail 


GOG.  103 

Beneath  that  cumbrous  mass  of  mail ; 
Yet  from  his  bearing  you  might  guess 
He  oft  had  worn  a  softer  dress, 
And  hxid  aside  that  nodding  crest 
To  lap  his  head  on  lady's  breast. 

The  meal  of  course  was  short  and  hasty, 
And  they  had  half  got  through  ttie  pasty, 
When  hark! — a  shriek  rung  loud  and  shrill ; 
The  churchman  jumped,  and  dropped  the  gill ; 
The  soldier  started  from  the  board, 
And  twined  his  hand  around  his  sword. 
Wliile  they  stood  wondering  at  the  din. 
The  ilinstrel-Boy  came  running  in ; 
With  trembling  frame  and  rueful  face 
He  bent  his  knee,  and  told  his  case : — 
"The  Monster's  might  away  hath  riven 
My  bliss  on  earth,  my  hope  in  Heaven ; 
And  there  is  nothing  left  me  now 
But  doubt  above,  and  grief  below ! 
My  heart  and  hers  together  fly. 
And  she  must  live,  or  I  must  die ! 
Look  at  the  caitifl[''s  face  of  pride, 
Look  at  his  long  and  haughty  stride ; 
Look  how  he  bears  her  o'er  hill  and  vale. 
My  Beauty,  the  Lily  of  aSTithys-dalel" 

They  gazed  around  them  ; — Monk  and  Knight 
Were  startled  at  that  awful  sight ! 


104  GOG. 

They  never  had  the  smallest  notion 

How  vast  twelve  feet  would  look  in  motion. 

Dark  as  the  midnight's  deepest  gloom, 

Swift  as  the  breath  of  the  Simoom, 

That  hill  of  flesh  was  moving  on ; 

And  oh !  the  sight  of  horror  won 

A  shriek  from  all  our  three  beholders — 

He  bore  the  maid  upon  his  shouldei-s! 

"Now,"  said  the  Knight,  "by  all  the  fame 

That  ever  clung  to  Arthur's  name, 

I'll  do  it— or  I'll  try,  at  least, 

To  win  her  from  that  monstrous  Beast." 

"Sir,"  said  the  Friar  to  the  Knight, 

"  Success  will  wait  upon  the  right; 

I  feel  much  pity  for  the  youth, 

And  though,  to  tell  the  honest  truth, 

I'm  rather  used  to  drink  than  slay, 

I'll  aid  you  here  as  best  I  may !" 

They  bade  the  minstrel  blow  a  blast. 

To  stop  the  monster  as  he  passed ; 

Gog  was  quite  puzzled ! — "  Zounds — I'feg ! 

My  friend — piano! — let  me  beg!" 

Then  in  a  rage  towards  the  place 

He  strode  along  a  rattling  pace ; 

Firm  on  the  ground  his  foot  he  planted, 

And  "wondered  what  the  deuce  they  wanted!" 

No  blockhead  was  that  holy  m.an, 

He  cleared  his  throat,  and  thus  began : — 


GOG.  105 

"  0  pessime! — that  is,  I  pray, 

Discede — signifying,  stay ! 

Damno — that  is,  before  you  go, 

Sis  comes  in  convivio  ; 

Ali — that  is,  set  dov.-n  tlie  lass  ; 

Monstrum — that  is,  you'll  take  a  glass? 

Oh,  holy  Church ! — that  is,  I  swear 

You  never  looked  on  nicer  fare ; 

Informe — Tiorridum — inm  ane! 

That  is,  the  wine's  as  good  as  any ; 

Apage  ! — exorcizo  te  ! 

That  is,  it  came  from  Burgundy; 

"We  hoth  are  anxious — execrande  ! 

To  drink  your  health — alominande  ! 

And  then  my  comrade  means  to  put 

His  falchion  through  your  occijnit  P^ 

The  Giant  stared  (and  who  would  not  0 

To  find  a  monk  so  wondrous  hot ; 

So  fierce  a  stare  you  never  saw ; 

At  last  the  brute's  portentous  jaw 

Swung  like  a  massy  creaking  hinge. 

And  then,  beneath  its  shaggy  fringe 

Rolling  about  each  wondrous  eye, 

He  scratched  his  beard  and  made  reply  : — 

'•  Bold  is  the  Monk,  and  bold  the  Knight, 

That  wishes  with  Gog  to  drink,  or  fight, 

For  I  have  been  from  east  to  west, 

And  battled  with  King  Arthur's  best. 

And  never  found  I  friend  or  foe 


106  GOG. 

To  stand  my  cup — or  bear  my  blow  !" 
"Most  puissant  Gog!  altliougii  I  burst," 
Exclaimed  tbe  Monk,  "I'll  do  the  first;" 
And  ere  a  moment  could  be  reckoned. 
The  Knight  chimed  in— "I'll  try  the  second." 

Tiie  Giant,  ere  he  did  the  job. 
Took  a  huge  chain  from  out  his  fob : 
He  bound  his  captive  to  a  tree  ; 
And  young  Le  Fraile  came  silently, 
And  marked  how  all  her  senses  slept. 
And  leaned  upon  her  brow,  and  wept ; 
He  kissed  her  lip,  but  her  lip  was  grown 
As  coldly  white  as  a  marble  stone ; 
He  met  her  eye,  but  its  vacant  gaze 
Had  not  the  light  of  its  living  rays ; 
Yet  still  that  trembling  lover  pressed 
The  maiden  to  his  throbbing  breast. 
Till  consciousness  returned  again. 
And  the  tears  flowed  out  like  summer  rain  ; 
There  was  the  bliss  of  a  hundred  years 
In  the  rush  of  those  delicious  tears! 

The  helm  from  ofl*  the  Warrior's  head 

Is  doifed  to  bear  the  liquor  red : 

That  casque,  I  trow,  is  deep  and  high, 

But  the  Monk  and  the  Giant  shall  drain  it  dry ; 

And  which  of  the  two,  when  the  feat  is  done, 

Shall  keep  his  legs  at  set  of  sun  ? 


GOG.  107 

They  filled  to  the  brim  that  helm  of  gold, 

And  the  Monk  hath  drained  its  ample  hold ; 

Silent  and  slow  the  liquor  fell 

As  into  some  capacious  well : 

Tranquilly  flowing  down  it  went, 

And  made  no  noise  in  its  long  descent ; 

And  it  leaves  no  trace  of  its  passage  now, 

But  the  stain  on  his  lip,  and  the  flush  on  his 

brow. 
They  filled  to  the  brim  that  helm  of  gold, 
And  the  Giant  hath  drained  its  ample  hold ; 
Through  his  dark  jaws  the  purple  ocean 
Ean  with  a  swift  and  restless  motion, 
And  the  roar  that  heralded  on  its  track 
Seemed  like  the  burst  of  a  cataract. 
Twice  for  each  was  the  fountain  filled. 
Twice  by  each  was  the  red  flood  swilled ; 
The  Monk  is  as  straight  as  a  poplar-tree, 
Gog  is  as  giddy  as  Gog  may  be  ! 

"  ISTow  try  we  a  buffet!"  exclaimed  the  Knight, 

And  rose  collected  in  his  might, 

Crossing  his  arms,  and  clinching  his  hand, 

And  fixing  his  feet  on  their  firmest  stand. 

The  Giant  struck  a  terrible  stroke, 

But  it  lighted  on  the  forest-oak; 

And  bough  and  branch  of  the  ancient  tree 

Shook,  as  he  smote  it,  wondrously : 

His  gauntleted  hand  the  Warrior  tried ; 


i03  GOG. 

Full  it  fell  on  the  Giant's  side  ; 

He  sank  to  earth  with  a  hideous  sliock,  ' 

Like  the  ruin  of  a  crumbling  rock, 

And  that  quivering  mass  was  senseless  laid 

In  the  pit  its  sudden  fall  had  made. 

That  stranger  Knight  hath  gone  to  the  tree 
To  set  the  trembling  captive  free ; 
Thrice  hath  he  smitten  Avith  might  and  main, 
And  burst  the  lock,  and  shivered  the  chain  ; 
But  the  knotty  trunk,  as  the  warrior  strove, 
Wrenched  from  his  hand  the  iron  glove, 
And  they  saw  the  gem  on  his  finger's  ring, 
And  they  bent  the  knee  to  England's  King. 
"Up!  up!"  he  said,  "for  the  sun  hath  passed, 
The  shadows  of  night  are  falling  fast, 
And  still  the  wedding  shall  be  to-day. 
And  a  King  shall  give  the  bride  away  !" 

The  abbey  bells  are  ringing 

With  a  merry,  merry  tone  ; 
And  the  happy  boors  are  singing 
With  a  music  all  their  own ; 
Joy  came  in  the  morning,  and  fled  at  noon  ; 
But  he  smiles  again  by  the  light  of  the  moon  : 
That  Minstrel-Boy,  the  young  Le  Fraile, 
Hath  wedded  the  Lily  of  Nithys-dale  ! 

(Eton,  1821.^ 


THE   TROUBADOUR.  109 


THE  TROUBADOUR. 


"  Le  Troubadour 
Brulant  d'amour." 

French  Ballah, 


OANTO   I. 

In  sooth  it  was  a  glorious  day 

For  vassal  and  for  Lord, 
Wlien  Coeur  de  Lion  had  the  sway 

In  battle  and  at  board. 
He  was  indeed  a  royal  one, 

A  Prince  of  Paladins  ; 
Hero  of  triumph  and  of  tun, 
Of  noisy  fray  and  noisy  fun, 

Broad  shoulders  and  broad  grins. 
You  might  have  looked  from  east  to  west, 

And  then  from  north  to  south, 
And  never  found  an  ampler  breast, 

jSTever  an  ampler  mouth, 
A  softer  tone  for  lady's  ear, 

A  dantier  lip  for  sirup, 
Or  a  ruder  grasp  for  axe  and  spear, 

Or  a  firmer  foot  in  stirrup. 
VoT..  L-8 


110  THE    TROUBADOITR, 

A  ponderous  thing  was  Eichard't;  can, 

And  so  was  Richard's  boot ; 
And  Saracens  and  liquor  ran, 

Where'er  he  set  his  foot. 
So  fiddling  here,  and  fighting  there, 

And  murdering  time  and  tune, 
With  sturdy  limb,  and  listless  air, 
And  gauntleted  hand,  and  jewelled  hair, 

Half  monarch,  half  buiToon, 
He  turned  awaj'  from  feast  to  fray, 

From  quarrelling  to  quaffing. 
So  great  in  prowess  and  in  pranks, 
So  fierce  and  funny  in  the  ranks. 
That  Saladin  the  Soldan  said. 
Whene'er  that  mad-cap  Richard  led. 
Alia !  he  held  his  breath  for  dread. 

And  burst  his  sides  for  laughing  ! 

At  court,  the  humour  of  a  king 

Is  always  voted  "  quite  the  thing  ;" 

Morals  and  cloaks  are  loose  or  laced 

According  to  the  Sovereign's  taste. 

And  belles  and  ])anquets  both  are  dressed 

Just  as  his  majesty  thinks  best. 

Of  course  in  that  delightful  age, 

When  Richard  ruled  the  roast. 
Cracking  of  cranium  s  was  the  rage, 

And  beauty  was  the  toast. 
Ay!  all  was  laugh,  and  life,  and  lore  ; 


THE    TROUEADOUK.  Ill 

And  lips  and  shrines  were  kissed  ; 
And  vows  were  ventured  in  the  grove, 

And  lances  in  the  list ; 
Ajid  boys  roamed  out  in  sunny  weather 
To  weave  a  wreath  and  rhyme  together, 
While  dames  in  silence,  and  in  satin, 
Lay  Jistening  to  the  soft  French-Latin, 
And  flung  their  sashes  and  their  sighs 
From  odour-breatWng  balconies. 

From  these  bright  days  of  love  and  glory 

I  take  the  hero  of  my  story. 

A  wandering  Troubadour  was  he ; 

He  bore  a  name  of  high  degree. 

And  learned  betimes  to  slay  and  sue, 

As  knights  of  high  degree  should  do. 

■While  vigour  nerved  his  buoyant  arm. 

And  youth  was  his  to  cheat  and  charm. 

Being  immensely  fond  of  dancing, 

And  somewhat  given  to  romancing, 

He  roamed  about  through  towers  and  towns, 

Apostrophizing  smiles  and  frowns. 

Singing  sweet  staves  to  beads  and  bonnets, 

And  dj^ng  day  by  day,  in  sonnets. 

Flippant  and  fair,  and  fool  enough. 

And  careless  where  he  met  rebuft', 

Poco-curante  in  all  cases 

Of  furious  foes,  or  pretty  faces. 

With  laughing  lip,  and  jocund  eye, 


112  THE    TROUBADOUR. 

And  studied  tear,  and  practised  sigli, 
And  ready  sword,  and  ready  verse, 
And  store  of  ducats  in  liis  purse. 
He  sinned  few  crimes,  loved  many  times, 
And  wrote  a  hundred  thousand  rhymes  ! 

Summers  twice  eight  had  passed  away 
Since  in  his  nurse's  arms  he  lay, 

A  rosy,  roaring  child, 
While  all  around  was  noisy  mirth, 
And  logs  blazed  up  upon  the  heartli, 

And  bonfires  on  the  wild  ; 
And  vassals  drank  the  brown  bowl  dry. 
And  cousins  knew  "the  mother's  eye," 
And  wrinkled  crones  spoke  proplieey. 

And  his  brave  father  smiled. 
Summers  twice  eight  had  passed  away ; 
His  sire's  thin  locks  grew  very  gray ; 
He  lost  his  song,  and  then  his  shout. 
And  seldom  saw  his  bottle  out. 
Then  all  the  menials  straight  began 
To  sorrow  for  "the  poor  old  man," 
Took  thought  about  his  shirts  and  shoe-ties, 
And  pestered  him  with  love  and  duties. 
Young  Roger  laced  a  ci'imson  row 
Of  cushions  on  his  saddle-bow  ; 
Red  "Wyke  at  Christmas  mingled  up 
More  sugar  in  the  wassail-cup ; 
Fair  Margaret  laid  finer  sheets; 


THE    TROUBADOUR.  113 

Fat  Catharine  served  riclier  sweets ; 

And  all,  from  scullion  up  to  squire, 

Who  stirred  his  cop  of  kitchen  fire, 

Seemed  by  their  doings  to  determine 

The  knight  should  ne'er  be  food  for  vermin. 

All  would  not  do;  the  knight  grew  thinner, 

And  loved  his  bed,  and  loathed  his  dinner; 

And  when  he  muttered — "Becket — beast, 

Bring  me  the  posset — and  a  priest," 

Becket  looked  grave,  and  said,  "Good  lack!" 

And  went  to  ask  the  price  of  black. 

Masses  and  medicines  both  were  bought. 
Masses  and  medicines  both  were  naught ; 

Sir  Hubert's  race  was  run  ; 
As  best  beseemed  a  warrior  tall. 
He  died  within  his  ancient  hall : 
And  he  was  blest  by  Father  Paul, 

And  buried  by  his  son. 
'Twere  long  to  tell  the  motley  gear 
That  -waited  on  Sir  Hubert's  bier ; 

For  twenty  good  miles  round 
Maiden  and  matron,  knave  and  knight, 
All  rode  or  ran  to  see  the  sight ; 

Yeomen  with  horse  and  hound. 
Gossips  in  grief  and  grogram  clad, 
Young  warriors  galloping  like  mad, 
Prior.^  and  peddlers,  pigs  and  pyxes, 
Cooks,  choristers,  and  crucifixes, 


114:        THE  TROUBADOUR. 

Wild  urchins  cutting  jokes  and  capers, 
And  taper  shapes,  and  shapely  tapers. 
.  The  mighty  barons  of  the  land 
Brought  pain  in  heart,  and  four-in-hand ; 
And  village  maids,  with  looks  of  woe, 
Turned  out  their  mourning,  and  their  toe. 
The  bell  was  rung,  the  hymn  was  sung, 
On  the  oak  chest  the  dust  was  flung ; 
And  then,  beneath  the  chapel-stones. 
With  a  gilt  scutcheon  o'er  his  bones, 
Escaped  from  feather-beds  and  fidget. 
Sir  Hubert  slept  with  Lady  Bridget. 

Tlie  mob  departed  :  cold  and  cloud 

Shed  on  the  vault  there  icy  shroud,  7 

And  night  came  dark  and  dreary ; 
But  there  young  Vidal  lingered  still. 
And  kept  his  fast,  and  wept  his  fill. 
Though  the  wind  in  the  chapel  was  very  chill, 

And  Vidal  very  weary. 
Low  moaned  the  bell ;  the  torch-light  fell 

In  fitful  and  faint  flashes ; 
And  he  lay  on  the  stones,  where   his  father's 
bones 

Were  mouldering  now  to  ashes ; 
And  vowed  to  be,  on  earth  and  sea, 

Whatever  stars  shone  o'er  him, 
A  trusty  knight,  in  love  and  fight. 

As  his  father  had  been  before  him. 


THE    TROUBADOTJE.  115 

Then  in  the  silence  of  the  night 
Passionate  grief  was  his  delight ; 
He  thought  of  all  the  brave  and  fair 
Who  slept  their  shadowy  slumber  there ; 
And  that  sweet  dotage  held  him  long, 
Ere  sorrow  found  her  voice  in  song. 

It  was  an  ancient  thing — a  song 

His  heart  had  sung  in  other  years, 
When  boyhood  had  its  idle  throng 

Of  guiltless  smiles,  and  guileless  tears ; 
But  never  had  its  music  seemed 

So  sweet  to  him,  as  when  to-night, 
All  lorn  and  lone,  he  kneeled  and  dreamed, 

Before  the  taper's  holy  light, 
Of  many  and  mysterious  things, 
Ilis  cradle's  early  visitLngs, 
The  melancholy  tones,  that  blest 
The  pillow  of  his  sinless  rest, 
The  melody,  whose  magic  numbers 
Broke  in  by  snatches  on  his  slumbers, 
When  earth  appeared  so  brightly  dim. 
And  all  was  bliss,  and  all  for  him, 
And  every  sight  and  every  sound 
Had  heaven's  own  day-light  flowing  round. 

"  My  mother's  grave,  my  mother's  grave  I 

Oh  !  dreamless  is  her  slumber  there, 
And  drowsily  the  banners  wave 


116  THE    TKOUBADOUE. 

O'er  her  tliat  was  so  chaste  an.'I  fair; 
Yea !  love  is  dead,    and  memory  faded  1 
But  when  the  dew  is  on  the  brake, 

And  silence  sleeps  on  earth  and  sea, 
And  mourners  weep,  and  ghosts  awake, 
Oh !  then  she  coraeth  back  to  me, 
In  her  cold  beauty  darkly  sluuled ! 

"  I  cannot  guess  her  face  or  form ; 

But  what  to  me  is  form  or  face  ? 
I  do  not  ask  the  weary  worm 

To  give  me  back  each  buried  grace 
Of  glistening  eyes,  or  trailing  tresses! 

I  only  feel  that  she  is  here, 

And  that  we  meet,  and  that  we  part ; 

And  that  I  drink  within  mine  ear. 
And  that  I  clasp  around  my  heart, 
Her  sweet  still  voice,  and  soft  caresses ! 

"  Not  in  the  waking  thought  by  day, 

Not  in  the  sightless  dream  by  night. 
Do  the  mild  tones  and  glances  play, 

Of  her  who  was  my  cradle's  light ! 
But  in  some  twilight  of  calm  weather 

She  glides,  by  fancy  dimly  wrought, 
A  glittering  cloud,  a  darkling  beam, 

With  all  the  quiet  of  a  thought. 
And  all  the  passion  of  a  dream. 
Linked  in  a  golden  spell  together!" 


THE    TROUBAPOrK.  117 

Oh  !  Vidal's  very  soul  did  weep 

Whene'er  that  music,  like  a  charm, 
Brought  back  from  their  unlistening  sleep 

The  kissing  lip  and  clasping  arm. 
But  quiet  tears  are  worth,  to  some, 
The  richest  smiles  in  Christendom  ; 
And  Vidal,  though  in  foUj^'s  ring 
He  seemed  so  weak  and  wild  a  thing. 
Had  yet  an  hour,  when  none  were  by. 
For  reason's  thought,  and  passion's  sigh. 
And  knew  and  felt,  in  heart  and  brain, 
The  Paradise  of  buried  pain ! 

And  Vidal  rose  at  break  of  day. 

And  found  his  heart  unbroken  ; 
And  told  his  beads,  and  went  away. 

On  a  steed  he  had  bespoken ; 
His  bonnet  he  drew  his  eyelids  o'er. 

For  tears  were  like  to  blind  him ; 
And  he  spurred  Sir  Guy  o'er  mount  and  moor. 
With  a  long  dull  journey  all  before. 

And  a  short  gay  squire  behind  him. 
And  the  neighbourhood  much  marvel  had  ; 

And  all  who  saw  did  say, 
The  weather  and  the  roads  were  bad. 
And  either  Vidal  had  run  mad. 

Or  Guy  had  ran  away ! 
Oh !  when  a  cheek  is  to  be  dried, 

All  pharmacy  is  foUy  ; 


118  THE    TEOUBADOUE. 

And  Vidal  knew,  for  he  had  tried, 
T]iere''s  nothing  like  a  rattling  ride 
'   For  curing  melancholy ! 

Tliree  days  he  rode  all  mad  and  mute; 

And  when  the  sun  did  pass, 
Three  nights  he  supped  upon  dry  fruit, 

And  slept  upon  wet  grass. 
Beneath  an  oak,  whose  hundred  years 
Had  formed  fit  shade  for  talk  or  tears, 
On  the  fourth  day  he  lay  at  noon, 
And  put  his  gilt  guitar  in  tune  ; 

When  suddenly  swept  by, 
In  gold  and  silver  all  arrayed, 
A  most  resplendent  cavalcade ; 
Baron  and  Beauty,  Knave  and  Knight, 
And  lips  of  love,  and  eyes  of  light. 

All  blended  dazzlingly. 
Ah !  all  the  world  that  day  came  out 
With  horse  and  horn,  and  song  and  shout; 
And  belles  and  bouquets  gayly  bloomed^ 
And  all  were  proud,  and  all  perfumed. 
And  gallants,  as  the  humour  rose, 
Talked  any  nonsense  that  they  chose, 
And  damsels  gave  the  reins  for  fun 
Alike  to  palfry  and  to  pun. 
It  chanced  no  lady  had  been  thrown, 
No  heir  had  cracked  his  collar-bone, 
So  pleasure  laughed  on  every  cheek, 


THE    TEOUBADOUR.  119 

And  naught,  save  saddles,  dreamed  of  pique. 

And  brightest  of  that  brilliant  train, 

With  jewelled  bit,  and  gilded  rejn. 

And  pommel  clothed  in  gorgeous  netting, 

And  courser  daintily  curvetting, 

Girt  round  with  gallant  Cavaliers, 

Some  deep  in  love,  and  some  in  years, 

Half  exquisites  and  half  absurds, 

All  babbling  of  their  beasts  and  birds, 

Quite  tired  of  trumpeting  and  talking. 

The  Baroness  returned  from  hawking. 

The  Lady  halted  ;  well  she  might; 

For  Vidal  was  so  fair. 

You  would  have  thought  some  god  of  light 

Had  walked  to  take  the  air  ; 

Bare  were  both  his  delicate  hands. 

And  the  hue  on  his  cheek  was  high, 
As  woman's  when  she  understands 

Her  first  fond  lover's  sigh  ; 
And  desolate  very,  and  very  dumb, 

And  rolling  his  eyes  of  blue. 
And  rubbing  his  forehead,  and  biting  his  thumb, 

As  lyrists  and  lovers  do. 
Like  Queen  Titania's  darling  pet, 

Or  Oberon's  wickedest  elf, 
He  lay  beside  a  rivulet. 

And  looked  beside  himself  ; 
And  belles  full  blown,  and  beaux  full  dressed, 


120  THE    TEOUBADOUR. 

Stood  there  with  smirk  aud  smile, 
And  many  a  finger,  and  many  a  jest, 
Were  pointed  all  the  while. 

Then  Vidal  came,  and  bent  his  knees 

Before  the  Lady  there. 
And  raised  his  bonnet,  that  the  breeze 

Might  trifle  with  his  hair ; 
And  said,  he  was  a  nameless  youth, 
Had  learned  betimes  to  tell  the  truth. 
Could  greet  a  friend,  and  grasp  a  foe, 
Could  take  a  jest  and  give  a  blow, 
Had  no  idea  of  false  pretences, 
Had  lost  his  father,  and  his  senses, 
Was  travelling  over  land  and  sea, 
Armed  with  guitar  and  gallantry  ; 
And  if  her  will  found  aught  of  pleasure 
In  trifling  soul,  and  tinkling  measure. 
He  prayed  that  she  would  call  her  own 
His  every  thought,  and  every  tone. 

"Bonne  grace,  good  Mary,  and  sweet  St.  John!" 

That  haughty  dame  did  say ; 
A  goodly  quarry  I  have  won, 

In  this  our  sport  to-day ! 
A  precious  page  is  this  of  mine, 
To  carve  my  meat,  and  pour  my  wine, 
To  loose  my  greyhound's  ringing  chain, 
And  hold  my  palfrey's  gaudy  rein, 


THE    TROUBADOUR.  121 

And  tell  strange  tales  of  moody  sprites, 
Around  the  hearth,  on  winter  nights. 
Marry !  a  wilful  look,  and  wild  ! 
But  wo  shall  tame  the  wayward  child, 
And  dress  his  roving  locks  demurely, 
And  tie  his  jesses  on  securely." 

She  took  from  out  her  garment's  fold 
A  dazzling  gaud  of  twisted  gold ; 

She  raised  him  from  his  knee ; 
The  diamond  cross  she  gravely  kissed. 
And  twined  the  links  around  his  wrist 

With  such  fine  witchery. 
That  there  he  kneeled,  and  met  her  glance 
In-  silence  and  a  moveless  trance, 
And  saw  no  sight  and  heard  no  sound, 
And  knew  himself  more  firmly  bound 
Than  if  a  hundred  weight  of  steel 
Had  fettered  him  from  head  to  heel. 

And  from  that  moment  Vidal  gave 

His  childish  fancy  up, 
Became  her  most  peculiar  slave, 
And  wore  her  scarf,  and  whipped  her  knave, 

And  filled  her  silver  cup. 
She  was  a  widow :  on  this  earth 
It  seemed  her  only  task  was  mirth ; 
She  had  no  nerves  and  no  sensations ; 
No  troubling  friends  nor  poor  relations; 


122  THE    TKOUBADOUB. 

IsTo  gnawing  grief  to  feel  a  care  for, 

Fo  living  soul  to  breathe  a  prayer  for. 

Ten  years  ago  her  lord  and  master 

Had  chanced  upon  a  sad  disaster ; 

One  night  his  servants  found  him  lying 

Speechless  or  senseless,  dead  or  dying, 

"With  shivered  sword  and  dabbled  crest. 

And  a  small  poinard  in  his  breast, 

And  nothing  further  to  supply 

The  slightest  hint  of  how  or  why. 

As  usual,  in  such  horrid  cases, 

The  men  made  oath,  the  maids  made  faces ; 

All  thought  it  most  immensely  funny 

The  murderer  should  have  left  the  money, 

And  showed  suspicions  in  dumb  crambo, 

And  buried  him  Avith  fear  and  flambeau. 

Clotilda  shrieked  and  swooned,  of  course, 

Grew  very  ill,  and  very  hoarse. 

Put  on  a  veil,  put  off"  a  rout. 

Turned  all  her  cooks  and  courtiers  out, 

And  lived  two  years  on  water-gruel, 

And  drank  no  wine,  and  used  no  fuel. 

At  last,  when  all  the  world  liad  seen 

How  very  virtuous  she  had  been, 

She  left  her  chamber,  dried  her  tears, 

Kept  open  house  for  Cavaliers, 

Few  furnished  all  the  cob  webbed  rooms, 

And  burned  a  fortune  in  perfumes. 

She  had  seen  six-and-thirty  springs, 


THE    TEOUBADOUE.  123 

And  still  her  blood's  warm  wanderings 
Told  tales  in  every  throbbing  vein 
Of  youth's  high  hope,  and  passion's  reign, 
And  dreams  from  which  that  lady's  heart 
Had  parted,  or  had  seemed  to  part. 
She  had  no  wiles  from  cunning  France, 
Too  cold  to  sing,  too  tall  to  dance ; 
But  yet,  where'er  her  footsteps  went, 
She  was  the  Queen  of  ATerriment : 
She  called  the  quickest  at  the  table, 
For  Courcy's  song,  or  Comine's  fable, 
Bade  Barons  quarrel  for  her  glove, 
And  talked  with  Squires  of  ladie-love. 
And  hawked  and  hunted  in  all  weathers. 
And  stood  six  feet — ^including  feathers. 
Her  suitors,  men  of  swords  and  baimcrs, 
Were  very  guarded  in  their  manners, 
And  e'en  when  heated  by  the  jorum 
Knew  the  strict  limits  of  decorum. 
"Well  had  Clotilda  learned  the  glance 
That  checks  a  lover's  first  advance ; 

That  brow  to  her  was  given 
That  chills  presumption  in  its  birth, 
A.nd  mars  the  madness  of  our  mirth 
And  wakes  the  reptile  of  the  earth 

From  the  vision  he  hath  of  heaven. 
And  yet  for  Vidal  she  could  find 
No  word  or  look  that  was  not  kind : 
With  him  she  walked  in  shine  or  shower, 


124  THE    TEOUBADOUR. 

And  quite  forgot  the  dinner-hour, 

And  gazed  upon  him,  till  he  smiled, 

As  doth  a  mother  on  a  child. 

Oh!  when  Avas  dream  so  purely  dreamed  I 

A  mother  and  a  child  they  seemed  : 

In  warmer  guise  he  loved  her  not ; — 

And  if,  heneath  the  stars  and  moon, 
He  lingered  in  some  lonely  spot 

To  play  her  fond  and  favourite  tune. 
And  if  he  fed  her  petted  mare, 
Aud  made  acquaintance  with  her  bear, 
Arid  kissed  her  hand  whene'er  she  gave  it, 
And  kneeled  him  down  sometimes,  to  crave  it, 
'Twas  partly  pride,  and  partly  jest, 

And  partly  'twas  a  boyish  whim, 
And  that  he  liked  to  see  the  rest 

Look  angrily  on  her  and  him. 
And  that — in  short,  he  was  a  boy, 
And  doted  on  his  last  new  toy. 

It  chanced  that  late,  one  summer's  gloaming, 
The  Lady  and  the  youth  were  roaming, 
In  converse  close  of  those  and  these. 
Beneath  a  long  arcade  of  trees ; 
Tall  trunks  stood  up  on  left  and  right. 
Like  columns  in  the  gloom  of  night, 
Breezeless  and  voiceless ;  and  on  high, 
"Where  those  eternal  pillars  ended, 
The  silent  boughs  so  closely  blended 
Their  mirk,  unstirring  majesty. 


THE    TKOUBADOUR.  125 

That  Superstition  well  might  nm 

To  wander  there  from  twelve  to  one, 

And  call  strange  shapes  from  heaven  or  hell 

Of  cowl  and  candle,  hook  and  bell. 

And  kneel  as  in  the  vaulted  aisle 

Of  some  time-honoured  Gothic  pile 

To  pay  her  weary  worship  there 

Of  counted  beads,  and  pattered  prayer. 

Clotilda  had,  for  once,  the  vapours, 
And  when  the  stars  lit  up  their  tapers, 
She  said  that  she  was  very  weary — 
She  liked  the  place,  it  was  so  dreary — 
The  dew  was  down  on  grass  and  flower, 

'Twas  very  wet — 'twas  very  wrong — 
But  she  must  rest  for  half  an  hour, 

And  listen  to  another  song. 

Then  many  a  tale  did  Vidal  tell 

Of  warrior's  spear,  and  wizard's  spell ; 

How  that  Sir  Brian  le  Bleu  had  been 

Cup-bearer  to  a  fairy  queen ; 

And  how  that  a  hundred  years  did  pass, 

And  left  his  brow  as  smooth  as  glass ; 

Time  on  his  form  marked  no  decay. 

He  stole  not  a  single  charm  away, 

He  could  not  blight 

That  eye  of  light, 
Nor  turn  those  raven  ringlets  gray. 
Vol.  I.— 9 


126  THE    TEOUEADOUIi. 

But  Brian's  love  for  a  mortal  maid 

Was  written  and  read  in  a  magic  sign, 
When  Brian  slipped  on  the  moonlight  glade, 

And  spilled  the  fairy's  odorous  wine ; 
And  she  dipped  her  fingers  in  the  can, 

And  sprinkled  him  with  seven  sprinkles, 
And  he  went  from  her  presence  a  weary  man, 

A  withering  lump  of  rheum  and  wrinkles. 

And  how  that  Satan  made  a  bond 

"With  Armonell  of  Trebizond — 

A  bond  that  was  written  at  first  in  tears, 

And  torn  at  last  in  laughter — 
To  be  his  slave  for  a  thousand  years, 

And  his  sovereign  ever  after. 

And  oh !  ■  those  years,  they  fleeted  fast, 
And  a  single  year  remained  at  last, 
A  year  for  crouching  and  for  crying, 
Between  his  frolic  and  his  frying. 

"  Toil  yet  another  toil,"  quoth  he, 

"  Or  else  thy  prey  I  will  not  be ; 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  servant  mine, 

And  call  me  back 

The  faded  track 
Of  years  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine!" 
And  Satan  hied  to  his  home  again 
On  the  wings  of  a  blasting  hurricane, 


THE    TROUBADOUB.  127 

And  left  old  Armonell  to  die, 
And  sleep  in  the  odour  of  sanctity. 

In  mockery  of  the  Minstrel's  skill 
The  Lady's  hrow  grew  darker  still; 

She  trembled  as  she  lay, 
And  o'er  her  face,  like  fitful  flame, 
The  feverish  colour  went  and  came, 
And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  tune. 
Her  black  eyes  stared  upon  the  moon 

With  an  unearthly  ray. 

•'  Good  Yidal," — as  she  spoke  she  leant 
So  wildly  o'er  the  instrument 
That  wondering  Vidal  started  back, 
For  fear  the  strings  should  go  to  wrack — 
"  Good  Yidal,  I  have  read  and  heard 

Of  many  a  haunted  heath  and  dell, 
Where  potency  of  wand  or  word. 

Or  chanted  rhyme,  or  written  spell, 
Ilath  burst,  in  such  an  hour  as  this, 

The  cerements  of  the  rotting  tomb. 
And  waked  from  woe,  or  torn  from  bliss, 

The  heritors  of  chill  and  gloom, 
Until  they  walked  upon  the  earth, 
Unshrouded,  in  a  ghastly  mirth, 
And  frightened  men  with  soundless  cries, 
And  hueless  cheeks,  and  rayless  eyes. 
Such  power  there  is ! — if  such  be  thine, 


128  THE    TKOUBADOtTK. 

Why,  make  to-night  that  sound  or  sign ; 
And  while  the  vapoury  sky  looks  mirk 
In  horror  at  our  midnight  work, 
"We  two  will  sit  on  two  green  knolls, 
And  jest  with  unembodied  souls, 
And  mock  at  every  moody  sprite 
That  wanders  from  his  bed  to-night." 

The  boy  jumped  up  in  vast  surprise, 
And  rubbed  his  forehead  and  his  eyes. 
And,  quite  unable  to  reflect, 
Made  answer  much  to  this  effect : 
"Lady! — the  saints  befriend  a  sinner  ! — 
Lady! — she  drank  too  much  at  dinner! — 
I  know  a  rhyme,  and^ghosts  forsooth ! — 
I  used  to  sing  it  in  my  youth ; 
'Twas  taught  me — curse  my  foolish  vanity  !- 
By  an  old  wizard — stark  insanity ! — 
Who  came  fi'om  Tunis — 'tis  the  hock! — 
At  a  great  age  and — twelve  o'clock  ! — 
He  wore — 0  Lord ! — a  painted  girdle. 
For  which  they  burnt  him  on  a  hurdle  • 
He  had  a  charm,  but — what  the  deuce 
It  wasn't  of  the  slightest  use ; 
There's  not  a  single  ghost  that  cares 
For — mercy  on  me!  how  she  stares!' 
And  then  again  he  sate  him  down. 
For  fiercer  fell  Clotilda's  frown, 


THE    TEOUBADOUK.  129 

And  played,  abominably  ill, 
And  horribly  against  his  will. 

"Spirits,  that  walk  and  wail  to-night, 

I  feel,  I  feel  that  ye  are  near ; 
There  is  a  mist  upon  my  sight. 
There  is  a  murmur  in  mine  ear, 
And  a  dark,  dark  dread 
Of  the  lonely  dead. 
Creeps  through  the  whispering  atmosphere 

"  Ye  hover  o'er  the  hoary  trees, 

And  the  old  oaks  stand  bereft  and  bare ; 
Ye  hover  o'er  the  moonlight  seas. 

And  the  tall  masts  rot  in  the  poisoned  air ; 
Ye  gaze  on  the  gate 
Of  earthly  state. 
And  the  ban-dog  shivers  in  silence  there. 

"  Come  hither  to  me  upon  your  cloud, 

And  tell  me  of  your  bliss  or  pain, 
And  let  me  see  your  shadowy  shroud. 
And  colourless  lip,  and  bloi  idiess  vein ; 
Where  do  ye  dwell. 
In  heaven  or  hell? 
And  why  do  ye  wander  on  earth  again  ? 

"  Tell  to  me  where  and  how  ye  died. 
Fell  ye  in  darkness,  or  fell  yo  in  day, 


130  THE    TEOUBADOmS. 

On  lorn  hiil-side,  or  roaring  tide, 
In  gorgeous  feast,  or  rushing  frav  ; 
By  bowl  or  blow. 
From  friend  or  foe, 
Hui'ried  your  angiy  souls  away  ? 

"  Mute  ye  come,  and  mute  ye  pass. 

Your  tale  untold,  your  shrift  unshriven  ; 
But  ye  have  blighted  the  pale  grass. 

And  scared  the  ghastly  stars  from  he;u'en  ; 
And  guilt  hath  known 
Your  voiceless  moan. 
And  felt  that  the  blood  is  unforgiven  !" 

He  paused ;  for  silently  and  slow 

The  Lady  left  his  side  ; 
It  seemed  her  blood  had  ceased  to  flow. 
For  her  cheek   Avas   as  white  as  the  morning 
snow. 

And  the  light  of  her  eyes  had  died. 
She  gazed  upon  some  form  of  fright, — 
But  it  was  not  seen  of  Vidal's  sight ; 
She  drank  some  sound  of  hate  or  fear, — 
But  it  was  not  heard  of  Vidal's  ear  : 
"Look!  look!"  she  said;  and  Vidal  spoke  : 
"  "Why !  zounds !  it's  nothing  but  an  oak !" 

"Valence!"  she  muttered,  "  I  will  rise; 
Ay  I  turn  not  those  dead  orbs  on  mine  ; 


THE    TROUBADOUR.  131 

Fearless  to-night  are  these  worn  eyes, 

And  nerveless  is  that  arm  of  thine. 
Thrice  hast  thou  fleeted  o'er  my  path  ; 

And  I  would  hear  thy  dull  lips  say, 
Is  it  in  sorrow,  or  in  wrath, 

That  thou  dost  haunt  my  lonely  way  ? 
Ay!  frown  not !  Heaven  may  blast  me  now, 

In  this  dark  hour,  in  this  cold  spot ; 
And  then — I  can  but  be  as  thou. 

And  hate  thee  still,  and  fear  thee  not !" 
She  strode  two  steps,  and  stretched  her  hand 
In  attitude  of  stern  command  ; 
The  tremor  of  her  voice  and  tread 
Had  more  of  passion  than  of  dread  ; 
The  net  had  parted  from  her  hair, 
The  locks  fell  down  in  the  powerless  air. 
Her  frame  with  strange  convulsion  rocked — 
And  Vidal  was  intensely  shocked. 

The  Lady  drew  a  long,  low  sigh, 
As  if  some  voice  had  made  reply, 
Though  Vidal  could  not  catch  a  Avord, 
And  thought  it  horribly  absurd. 
"  Remember  it  ? — avenging  power ! 

I  ask  no  word,  I  need  no  sign, 
To  teach  me  of  that  withering  hour 

That  linked  this  wasted  hand  in  thine ! 
He  was  not  there! — I  deemed  him  slain  ; — 
And  thine  the  guilt, — and  mine  the  pain ! 


132  THE    TROUBADOUR. 

There  are  memorials  of  that  day 
Which  time  shall  never  blot  away, 
Unheeded  prayer,  unpardoned  sin, 
And  smiles  without,  and  flames  within, 
And  broken  heart,  and  ruined  fame, 
And  glutted  hate,  and  dreaded  shame. 
And  late  remorse,  and  dreams,  and  fears, 
And  bitter  and  enduring  tear!" 

She  listened  there  another  space, 
And  stirred  no  feature  of  her  face. 
Though  big  drops,  ere  she  spoke  again. 
Fell  from  her  clammy  brow  like  rain : 
At  last  she  glanced  a  wilder  stare. 
And  stamped  her  foot,  and  tore  her  hair. 
"  False  fiend !  thou  liest,  thou  hast  lied ! 

He  was,  what  thou  couldst  never  be — 
In  anguish  true,  in  danger  tried-  - 

Their  friend  to  all — my  god  to  me ! 
He  loved — as  thou  couldst  never  love — 

Long  years — and  not,  till  then,  in  guilt ; 
Nay  !  point  not  to  the  wailing  grove, 

I  know  by  whom  the  blood  was  spilt, 
I  saw  the  tomb,  and  heard  the  knell. 

And  life  to  me  was  lorn  and  blighted, — • 
He  died — and  vengeance  watches  well! 

He  died — and  thou  wert  well  requited!" 

Again  ehe  listened : — full  five  score 
You  might  have  counted  duly  o'er — 


THE    TEOTJBADOUB.  133 

And  then  she  laughed  ;  so  fierce  and  shrill 

That  laughter  echoed  o'er  the  hill, 

That  Vidal  deemed  the  very  ground 

Did  shake  at  its  unearthly  sound. 

"  T  do  not  tremble !  be  it  so  I — 

Or  here  or  there  !  in  bliss  or  woe  ! — 

Yea  I  let  it  be !  and  we  will  meet, 

Where  never "  and  at  Vidal's  feei 

She  sank,  as  senseless  and  as  cold 
As  if  her  death  were  two  days  old  ; 
And  Vidal,  who  an  hour  before 
Had  voted  it  a  horrid  bore, 
His  silken  sash  with  speed  unlaced, 
And  bound  it  round  her  neck  and  waist, 
And  bore  her  to  her  castle- gate. 
And  never  stopped  to  rest  or  bait, 
Speeding  as  swiftly  on  his  track 
As  if  nine  fiends  were  at  his  back. 

Then  rose  from  fifty  furious  lungs 
A  Babel  of  discordant  tongues : 
"  Jesu !  the  Baroness  is  dead  !" — 
"  Shouldn't  her  Ladyship  be  bled?" — 
"Her  fingers  are  as  cold  as  stone  !" — 
"And  look  how  white  her  lips  are  groAvu! 
A  dreadful  thing  for  all  who  love  her ! 
'Tis  ten  to  one  she  won't  recover  !" — 
"  Ten  ?" — "  Did  you  ever,  Mrs.  Anne  ? 
Ten  rogues  against  one  honest  man  I"-  - 


134  THE    TROUBADOUR. 

"  How  Master  Vidal  must  have  fought! 

It's  what  I  never  should  have  thought ; 

He  seems  the  sickliest  thing  alive;" — 

"  They  say  he  killed  and  -wounded  five!" — 

"  Is  Master  Vidal  killed  and  wounded  ? 

I  trust  the  story  is  unfounded  !" — 

"  I  saw  him  on  his  legs  just  now," — 

"  What!  sawed  his  legs  off?  well,  I  vow"— 

"  Peace,  babbler,  peace!  you  see  you've  shocked 

her ! 
Help !  ho  !"— "  cold  water  for  the  Doctor  ! 
Her  eyes  are  open !" — "  how  they  blink ! 

"Why,  Doctor,  do  you  really  think," 

"  My  Loi-d,  we  never  think  at  all ; 

I'll  trouble  you  to  clear  the  hall, 

And  check  all  tendency  to  riot. 

And  keep  the  Castle  very  quiet  ; 

Let  none  but  little  Bertha  stay ; 

And — try  to  keep  the  Friar  aAvay  I" 

Poor  Vidal,  who  amid  the  rout 

Had  crept  in  cautious  silence  out, 

Reeled  to  his  chamber  in  the  stagircrs, 

And  thought  of  home,  and  dreamed  of  daggera 

Day  dawned  :  the  Baroness  was  able 
To  beam  upon  the  breakfast-table. 
As  well  as  could  be  well  expected. 
Before  the  guests  were  half  collected. 
"  A  fainting-fit ; — a  thing  of  course ; — 


THE    TEOUBADOITR.  13o 

In  sooth  it  might  have  ended  worse  ; 
Exceedingly  obliged  to  Vidal ; — 
Pray,  had  the  groom  repaired  her  bridle  ? 
She  walked  too  late  ; — it  was  a  warning ; 
And who  was  for  the  chase  this  morning  ?" 

Days  passed,  and  weeks :  Clotilda's  mien 

Was  gay  as  it  before  had  been, 

And  only  once  or  twice  her  glance 

Fell  darkly  on  his  countenance, 

And  gazed  into  his  eyes  of  blue, 

As  if  she  read  his  young  heart  through  : 

At  length  she  mildly  hinted — "  Surely 

Vidal  was  looking  very  poorly, — 

He  never  talked, — had  parted  quite 

"With  spirits,  and  with  appetite  ; 

She  thought  he  wanted  change  of  air  ; — 

It  was  a  shame  to  keep  him  there  ; 

She  had  remarked  the  change  with  sorrow, 

And well,  he  should  sot  out  to-morrow." 

The  morrow  came,  'twas  glorious  weather. 

And  all  the  household  flocked  together 

To  hold  his  stirrup  and  his  rein, 

And  say,  "Heaven  speed  !"  with  might  and  main. 

Clotilda  only  said,   "  Farewell !" 

And  gave  her  hand  to  kiss  and  clasp  ; 
He  thought  it  trembled,  as  it  fell 

In  silence  from  his  lip  and  grasp. 


136  THE    TROUBADOUR. 

And  yet  upon  her  cheek  and  brow 
There  dwelt  no  flush  of  passion  now  ; 
Only  the  kind  regret  was  there 
"Which  severed  friends  at  parting  wear, 
And  the  sad  smile  and  glistening  eye 
Seemed  naught  to  shun,  and  naught  defy. 

"Farewell!"  she  said,  and  so  departed; 
And  Vidal  from  his  revery  started, 
And  blessed  his  soul,  and  cleared  his  throat, 
A.nd  crossed  his  forehead — and  the  moat. 


All  milliners  who  start  from  bed 
To  gaze  upon  a  coat  of  red. 

Or  listen  to  a  drum. 
Know  very  well  the  Paphian  Queen 
Was  never  yet  at  Paphos  seen, 

That  Cupid's  all  a  hum. 
That  minstrels  forge  confoimded  lies 
About  the  Deities  and  skies. 
That  torches  all  go  out  sometimes. 
That  flowers  all  fade  except  in  rhymes, 
That  maids  are  seldom  shot  with  arrows, 
And  coaches  never  drawn  by  sparrows. 

And  yet,  fair  cousin,  d<i  not  deem 
That  all  is  false  v/hich  poets  tell, 


THE    TEOTHBADOTJE.  137 

Of  Passion's  first  and  dearest  dream, 

Of  haunted  spot,  and  silent  spell, 
Of  long,  low  musing,  such  as  suits 

The  terrace  on  your  own  dark  hill, 
Of  whispers  which  are  sweet  as  lutes. 

And  silence  which  is  sweeter  still ; 
Believe,  believe, — for  May  shall  pass. 

And  summer  sun  and  winter  shower 
Shall  dim  the  freshness  of  the  grass, 

And  mar  the  fragrance  of  the  flower, — 
Believe  it  all,  whate'er  you  hear 

Of  plighted  vow,  and  treasured  token. 
And  hues  which  only  once  appear. 

And  words  which  only  once  are  spoken, 
And  prayers  whose  natural  voice  is  song, 

And  schemes  that  die  in  wild  endeavour, 
And  tears  so  pleasant,  you  will  long 

To  weep  such  pleasant  tears  forever : 
Believe  it  all,  believe  it  all! 

Oh !  Virtue's  frown  is  all  divine  ; 
And  Folly  hides  his  happy  thrall 

In  sneers  as  cold  and  false  as  mine  ; 
And  Reason  prates  of  wrong  and  right. 

And  marvels  hearts  can  break  or  bleed, 
And  flings  on  all  that's  warm  and  bright 

The  winter  of  his  icy  creed ; 
But  when  the  soul  has  ceased  to  glow. 

And  years  and  cares  are  coming  fast, 
There's  nothing  like  young  love !  no,  no ! 

There's  nothing  like  vouns:  love  at  last ! 


138  THE    TKOTJEADOUK. 

The  Convent  of  St.  Ursula 
Has  been  in  a  marvellous  fright  to-day ; 
The  nuns  are  all  in  a  terrible  pother, 
Scolding  and  screaming  at  one  another; 
Two  or  three  pale,  and  two  or  three  red ; 
Two  or  three  frightened  to  death  in  bed; 
Two  or  three  waging  a  wordy  war 
With  the  wide-eared  saints  of  the  calendar. 
Beads  and  lies  have  both  been  told, 
Tempers  are  hot,  and  dishes  are  cold  ; 
Celandine  rends  her  last  new  veil, 
Leonore  babbles  of  horns  and  tail ; 
Celandine  proses  of  songs  and  slips, 
Yiolette  blushes  and  bites  her  lips  : 
Oh  !  what  is  the  matter,  the  matter  to-day, 
"With  the  Convent  of  St.  Ursula? 

But  the  Abbess  has  made  the  chiefest  din. 

And  cried  the  loudest  cry  ; 
She  has  pinned  her  cap  with  a  crooked  pin, 
And  talked  of  Satan  and  of  sin. 

And  set  her  coif  awry ; 
And  she  can  never  quiet  be ; 

But  ever  since  the  matins, 
In  gallery  and  scullery, 
And  kitchen  and  refectory. 

She  tramps  it  in  her  pattens  ; 
Oh  I  what  is  the  matter,  the  matter  to-day, 
With  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula? 


THE    TROUBADOUR.  139 

Thrice  in  tlie  silence  of  eventirae 
A  desperate  foot  has  dared  to  climb 

Over  the  Convent  gate  ; 
Thrice  a  venturous  voice  and  lute 
Have  dared  to  wake  their  amorous  suit, 
Among  the  Convent  flowers  and  fruit, 

Abominably  late ; 
And  thrice,  the  beldames  know  it  well. 
From  out  the  lattice  of  her  cell. 
To  listen  to  that  murmured  measure 
Of  life,  and  love,  and  hope,  and  pleasure, 
"With  throbbing  heart  and  eyelid  wet. 
Hath  leaned  the  novice  Violette ; 
And  oh !  you  may  tell  from  her  mournful  gaze, 
Her  vision  hath  been  of  those  dear  days, 
When  happily  o'er  the  quiet  lawn. 

Bright  with  the  dew's  most  heavenly  sprin- 
kles, 
She  scared  the  pheasant,  and  chased  the  fawn, 

Till  a  smile  came  o'er  her  father's  wrinkles ; 
Or  stood  beside  that  water  fair, 

"Where  moonlight  slept  with  a  ray  so  tender, 
That  every  star  which  glistened  there, 

Glistened,  she  thought,  with  a  double  splen- 
dour ; 
And  oh  ;  she  loved  the  ripples'  play. 

As  to  her  feet  the  truant  rovers 
Wandered  and  went  Avith  a  laugh  away, 

Kissing  but  once,  like  wayward  lovers. 


14:0  THE    TKOUEADOUE. 

And  oh !  she  loved  the  night- wind's  moan, 

And  the  dreary  watch-dog's  lonely  yelling, 
And  the  sentinel's  unchanging  tone, 

And  the  chapel-chime  so  sadly  knelling. 
And  the  echoes  from  the  Castle-hall 

Of  circling  song  and  noisy  gladness. 
And,  in  some  silent  interval. 

The  nightingale's  deep  voice  of  sadness. 
Alas !  there  comes  a  winter  bleak 

On  the  lightest  joy,  and  the  loveliest  flower  ; 
And  the  smiles  have  faded  on  Violette's  cheek, 

And  the  roses  have  withered  in  Yiolette'a 
bower  ; 
But  now  by  the  beautiful  turf  and  tide 

Poor  Violette's  heart  in  silence  lingers, 
And  the  thrilling  tears  of  memory  glide 

Through  the  trembling  veil  and  the  quivering 
fingers. 
Yet  not  for  these — for  these  alone — 

That  innocent  heart  beats  high  to-day ; 
And  not  for  these  the  stifled  moan 
Is  breathed  in  such  thick,  passionate  tone, 

That — not  the  lips  appear  to  pray, — 
But  you  may  deem  those  murmurs  start 
Forth  from  the  life-strings  of  the  heart, 
So  wild  and  strange  is  that  long  sigh, 
So  full  of  bliss  and  agony  I 

She  thinks  of  him,  the  lovely  boy, 
Sweet  Vidal,  with  his  face  of  joy, 


141 


THE    TROUBADOUK. 

The  careless  mate  of  all  the  glee 

That  shone  upon  her  infancy, 

The  baby-lover,  who  had  been 

The  sceptred  King,  where  she  was  Queen, 

On  Childhood's  dream-encircled  strand, 

The  undisputed  Fairy-land ! 

She  thinks  of  him,  she  thinks  of  him, 

The  lord  of  every  wicked  whim, 

Who  dared  Sir  Prinsamour  to  battle. 

And  drove  away  De  Clifford's  cattle. 

And  sang  an  Ave  at  the  feast, 

And  made  wry  faces  at  the  Priest, 

And  ducked  the  Duchess  in  the  sea, 

And  tore  Sir  Roland's  pedigree. 

She  thinks  of  him, — the  forehead  fair, 
The  ruddy  lip,  and  glossy  hair, — 
The  mountains,  where  they  roved  together 
In  life's  most  bright  and  witching  weather, — 
The  wreck  they  watched  upon  the  coast, — 
Tlie  ruin  where  they  saw  the  ghost, — 
The  fairy  tale  he  loved  to  tell, — 
The  serenade  he  sang  so  well ; 
And  then  she  turns  and  sees  again 
The  naked  wall,  and  grated  pane. 
And  frequent  winks  and  frequent  frowns, 
And  'broidered  books  and  'broidered  gowns. 
And  plaster  saints  and  plaster  patrons, 
And  three  impracticable  matrons. 
Vol.  T.— 10 


142  THE    TROUBADOUPw 

She  was  a  very  pretty  nun : 

Sad,  delicate,  and  five  feet  one  ; 

Her  face  was  oval,  and  her  eye 

Looked  like  the  heaven  in  Italy, 

Serenely  blue  and  softly  bright. 

Made  up  of  languish  and  of  light ! 

And  her  neck,  except  where  the  locks  of  brown, 

Like  a  sweet  summer  mist,  fell  droopingly  down, 

Was  as  chill  and  as  white  as  the  snow,  ere  the 

earth 
Has  sullied  the  hue  of  its  heavenly  birth  ; 
And  through  the  blue  veins  you  might  see 
The  pure  blood  wander  silently. 
Like  noiseless  eddies,  that  far  below 
In  the  glistening  depths  of  a  calm  lake  flow ; 
Her  cold  hands  on  her  bosom  lay ; 
And  her  ivory  crucifix,  cold  as  they, 
"Was  clasped  in  a  fearful  and  fond  caress. 
As  if  she  shrank  from  its  holiness, 
And  felt  that  hers  was  the  only  guilt 
For  which  no  healing  blood  was  spilt : 
And  tears  were  bursting  all  the  while  ; 
Yet  now  and  then  a  vacant  smile 
Over  her  lips  would  come  and  go, — 
A  very  mockery  of  woe, — 
A  brief,  wan  smile, — a  piteous  token 
Of  a  warm   love  crushed,  and  a  young  heart 

broken ! 


THE    TROUBADOUR.  143 

"Marry  come  up  !"  said  Celandine, 

Whose  nose  was  ruby  red, — 
"  From  venomous  cates  and  wicked  wine 

A  deadly  sin  is  bred. 
Darkness  and  anti-phlogistic  diet, 
These  will  keep  the  pulses  quiet ; 
Silence  and  solitude,  bread  and  water, — 
So  must  we  cure  our  erring  daughter!" 
I  have  dined  at  an  Alderman's  board, 
I  have  drunk  with  a  German  lord, 
But  richer  was  Celandine's  own  ^aie 
Than  Sir  "William's  soup  on  Christinas  day, 
And  sweeter  the  flavour  of  Celandine's  flask 
Than  the  loveliest  cup  from  a  Rhenish  cask ! 

"Saints  keep  us!"  said  old  WiniiVode, 

"  Saints  keep  and  cure  us  all ! 
And  let  us  hie  to  our  book  and  bead, 

Or  sure  the  skies  will  fall ! 
Is  she  a  Heathen,  or  is  she  a  Hindoo, 
To  talk  with  a  silly  boy  out  of  the  window? 
Was  ever  such  profaneness  seen  ? 
Pert  minx ! — and  only  just  sixteen !" 
I  have  talked  with  a  fop  who  has  fought  twelve 

duels, 
Six  for  an  heiress,  and  six  for  her  jewels; 
I  have  prosed  with  a  reckless  bard,  who  rehearses 
Every  day  a  thousand  verses  ; 
But  oh!  more  marvellous  twenty  times 


144  THE    TEOHBADOUE. 

Tiian  tlie  bully's  lies,  or  the  blockhead's  rhymes, 
Were  the  scurrilous  tales,  which  Scandal  told 
Of  Winifrede's  loves  in  the  days  of  old  ! 

The  Abbess  lifted  up  her  eye, 

And  laid  her  rosary  down. 
And  sighed  a  melancholy  sigh, 

And  frowned  an  angry  frown. 
"  There  is  a  cell  in  the  dark  cold  ground. 

Where  sinful  passions  wither : 
Vapoury  dews  lie  damp  around, 
And  merriment  of  sight  or  sound 

Can  work  no  passage  thither  : 
Other  scene  is  there,  I  trow, 
Than  suits  a  love-sick  maiden's  vow ; 
For  a  death-watch  makes  a  weary  tune, 
And  a  glimmering  lamp  is  a  joyless  moon, 
And  a  couch  of  stone  is  a  dismal  rest, 
And  an  aching  heart  is  a  bitter  guest ! 
Maiden  of  the  bosom  light. 
There  shall  thy  dwelUng  be  to-night ; 
Mourn  and  meditate,  fast  and  pray, 
And  drive  the  evil  one  away. 
Axe  and  cord  were  fitter  doom. 
Desolate  grave  and  mouldering  tomb  ; 
But  the  merciful  faith,  that  speaks  the  sentence 
Joys  in  the  davrn  of  a  soul's  repentance, 
And  the  eyes  may  shed  sweet  tears  for  them, 
"Whom  the  hands  chastise,  and  the  hps  condemn ' ' 


THE    TROUBADOUR.  145 

I  have  set  my  foot  on  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  the  dungeon  of  trampled  France  is  not ; 

I  have  heard  men  talk  of  Mr.  Peel ; 

I  have  seen  men  walk  on  the  Brixton  wheel ; 

And  'twere  better  to  feed  on  frogs  and  fears, 

Guarded  by  griefs  and  grenadiers, 

And  'twere  better  to  tread  all  day  and  niglit, 

With  a  rogue  on  the  left,  and  a  rogue  on  the 

right, 
Than  lend  our  persons  or  our  purses 
To  that  old  lady's  tender  mercies! 

"  Ay !  work  your  will !"  the  young  girl  said  ; 
And  as  she  spoke  she  raised  her  head, 
And  for  a  moment  turned  aside 
To  check  the  tear  she  could  not  hide ; 
"Ay !  work  your  will ! — I  know  you  all. 

Your  holy  aims  and  pious  arts, 
And  how  you  love  to  fling  a  pall 

On  fading  joys,  and  blighted  hearts  ; 
And  if  these  quivering  lips  could  tell 

The  story  of  our  bliss  and  woe. 
And  how  we  loved — oh !  loved,  as  well 

As  ever  mortals  loved  below, — 
And  how  in  purity  and  truth 

The  flower  of  early  joy  was  nursed, 
TUl  sadness  nipped  its  blushing  youth, 

And  holy  mummery  called  it  cursed, — 
You  would  but  watch  my  sobs  aud  sighs 


146  THE    TEOUEADOUB. 

With  shaking  head,  and  silent  sneers, 
And  deck  with  smiles  those  soulless  eyes, 

When  mine  should  swell  with  bitter  tears  I 
But  work  your  will !     Oh !  life  and  limb 

May  wither  in  that  house  of  dread, 
Where  horrid  shapes  and  shadows  dim 

Walk  nightly  round  the  slumberer's  head  ; 
The  sight  may  sink,  the  tongue  may  fail, 

The  shuddering  spirit  long  for  day. 
And  fear  may  make  these  features  pale, 

And  turn  these  boasted  riuglets  gray; 
But  not  for  this,  oh  !  not  for  this. 

The  heart  will  lose  its  dream  of  gladness ; 
And  the  fond  thought  of  that  last  kiss 

Will  live  in  torture — yea !  in  madness! 
And  look !     I  vrill  not  fear  or  feel 

The  all  your  hate  may  dare  or  do ; 
And,  if  I  ever  pray  and  kneel, 

I  will  not  kneel  and  pray  to  you!" 

If  you  had  seen  that  tender  cheek. 

Those  eyes  of  melting  blue, 
You  would  not  have  thought  in  a  tiling  so  weak 

S-ueh  a  fiery  spirit  grew. 
But  the  trees  which  summer's  breezes  shaku 

Are  shivered  in  winter's  gale ; 
And  a  meek  girl's  heart  will  bear  to  break, 

AVhen  a  proud  man's  truth  would  fail. 


THE  TROUBADOUK.        14:7 

Never  a  word  she  uttered  more ; 

They  have  led  her  down  the  stair, 
And  left  her  on  the  dungeon-floor, 

To  find  repentance  there  ; 
And  naught  have  they  set  beside  her  bed, 

Within  that  chamber  dull, 
But  a  lonely  lamp  and  a  loaf  of  bread, 

A  rosary  and  skull. 
The  breast  is  bold  that  grows  not  cold, 

With  a  strong  convulsive  twinge, 
As  the  slow  door  creeps  to  its  sullen  hold 

Upon  its  mouldering  hinge. 
That  door  was  made  by  the  cunning  hand 
Of  an  artist  from  a  foreign  land ; 
Human  skill  and  heavenly  thunder 
Shall  not  win  its  wards  asunder. 
The  chain  is  fixed  and  the  bolt  is  fast, 
And  the  kind  old  Abbess  lingers  last. 
To  mutter  a  prayer  on  her  bended  knee, 
And  clasp  to  her  girdle  the  iron  key. 

But  then,  oh  !  then  began  to  run 

Horrible  whispers  from  nun  to  nun : 

"Sister  Amelia"— " Sister  Anne,"— 

"Do  tell  us  how  it  all  began ;" 

"  The  youth  was  a  handsome  youtli,  that's  certain. 

For  Bertha  peeped  from  behind  the  curtain:" — 

"As  sure  as  I  liave  human  eyes, 

It  was  the  Devil  in  disguise ; 


148  THE    TROUBADOUR. 

His  hair  lianging  down  like  threads  of  wire, 
And  Ms  mouth  breathing  smoke,  like  a  haystack 

on  fire. 
And  the   ground  beneath    his  footstep    rock- 
ing!"— 
"Lord!  Isabel!  how  very  shocking!" 
"  Poor  Violette  !   she  was  so  merry ! 
I'm  very  sorry  for  her  ! — very!" 
"  Well !  it  was  worth  a  silver  tester. 
To    see    how   she    frowned  when    the  Abbess 

blessed  her;" — 
"Was  Father  Anselm  there  to  shrive? 
For  I'm  sure  she'll  never  come  out  alive!" — 
"  Dear  Elgitha,  don't  frighten  us  so  !" — 
"It's  just  a  hundred  years  ago 
Since  Father  Peter  was  put  in  the  cell 
For  forgetting  to  ring  the  vesper  beU; 
Let  U3  keep  ourselves  from  mortal  sin ! 
He  went  not  out  as  he  went  in !" — 
"  No  I  and  he  lives  there  still,  they  say, 
In  his  coat  of  black,  and  his  cowl  of  gray, 
Weeping,  and  wailing,  and  walking  about. 
With  an  endless  grief,  and  an  endless  gout. 
And  wiping  his  eyes  with  a  kerchief  of  lawn. 
And  ringing  his  bell  from  dusk  to  dawn !" — 
"  Let  us  pray  to  be  saved  from  love  and  spec- 
tres!"— 
"From  the  haunted  cell!" — "and  the  Abbess's 
lectures!" 


THE    TROUBADOUR.  149 

The  garish  sun  has  gone  awav, 

And  taken  with  him  the  toils  of  day ; 

Foul  ambition's  hollow  schemes, 

Busy  labour's  golden  dreams, 

Angry  strife,  and  cold  debate. 

Plodding  care,  and  plotting  hate. 

But  in  the  nunnery  sleep  is  fled 

From  many  a  vigilant  hand  and  head  ; 

A  watch  is  set  of  friars  tall, 

Jerome  and  Joseph,  and  Peter  and  Paul ; 

And  tlie  chattering  girls  are  all  locked  up ; 

And  the  wrinkled  old  Abbess  is  gone  to  sup 

On  mushrooms  and  sweet  muscadel, 

In  the  fallen  one's  deserted  cell. 

And  now  'tis  love's  most  lovely  hour. 

And  silence  sits  on  earth  and  sky. 
And  moonlight  flings  on  turf  and  tower 

A  spell  of  deeper  witchery  ; 
And  in  the  stillness  and  the  shade 
All  things  and  colours  seem  to  fade ; 
And  the  garden  queen,  the  blushing  rose, 
Has  bowed  her  head  in  a  soft  repose  ; 
And  weary  Zephyr  has  gone  to  rest 
In  the  flowery  grove  he  loves  the  best. 
Nothing  is  heard  but  the  long,  long  snore, 
Solemn  and  sad,  of  the  watchmen  four. 
And  the  voice  of  the  rivulet  rippling  by, 
And  the  nightingale's  evening  melody, 


150  THE    TROUBADOUR. 

And  the  drowsy  wing  of  the  sleepless  bat, 
And  the  mew  of  the  gardener's  tortoise-sheU 
oat. 

Dear  cousin  !  a  harp  like  yours  has  power 

Over  the  soul  in  every  hour ; 

And  after  breakfast,  when  Sir  G. 

Has  been  discussing  news  and  tea, 

And  eulogized  his  coals  and  logs, 

And  told  the  breeding  of  his  dogs, 

And  hurled  anathemas  of  pith 

Against  the  sect  of  Adam  Smith, 

And  handed  o'er  to  endless  shame 

The  voters  for  the  sale  of  game, 

'Tis  sweet  to  fly  from  him  and  vapours, 

And  those  interminable  papers, 

And  waste  an  idle  hour  or  two 

With  dear  Rossini,  and  with  you. 

But  those  sweet  sounds  are  doubly  sweet 

In  the  still  nights  of  June, 
When  song  and  silence  seem  to  meet 

Beneath  the  quiet  moon ; 
When  not  a  single  leaf  is  stirred 
By  playful  breeze  or  joyous  bird, 
And  Echo  shrinks,  as  if  afraid 
Of  tlie  faint  murmur  she  has  made. 
Oh,  then  the  Spirit  of  music  roves 
With  a  delicate  step  through  the  myrtle-groves. 


i 


THE    TROUBADOUR.  151 

And  still,  wherever  lie  flits,  he  flings 
A  thousand  charms  from  his  purple  wings. 
And  where  is  that  discourteous  wight, 
Who  would  not  linger  through  the  night, 
Listening  ever,  lone  and  mute. 
To  the  murmur  of  his  mistress'  lute. 
And  courting  those  bright  phantasies, 
Which  haunt  the  dreams  of  waking  eyes? 

lie  came  that  night,  the  Troubadour, 

While  the  four  fat  friars  slept  secure. 

And  gazed  on  the  lamp  that  sweetly  glistened, 

Where  he  thought  his  mistress  listened  ; 

Low  and  clear  the  silver  note 

On  the  thrilled  air  seemed  to  float  ; 

Such  might  be  an  angel's  moan. 

Half  a  whisper,  half  a  tone  : — 

"So  glad  a  life  was  never,  love. 

As  that  which  childhood  leads, 
Before  it  learns  to  sever,  love. 

The  roses  from  the  weeds  ; 
When  to  be  very  duteous,  love. 

Is  all  it  has  to  do  ; 
And  every  flower  is  beauteous,  love. 

And  every  folly  true. 

"  And  you  can  still  remember,  love. 
The  buds  that  decked  our  play, 


152  THE    TEOtTBADOUE. 

Though  Destiny's  December,  love, 

Has  whirled  those  buds  away : 
And  you  can  smile  through  tears,  love, 

And  feel  a  joy  in  pain, 
To  think  upon  those  years,  love, 

You  may  not  see  again. 

"  When  we  mimicked  the  Friar's  howls,  lovo, 

Cared  nothing  for  his  creeds, 
Made  bonnets  of  his  cowls,  love, 

And  bracelets  of  his  beads  ; 
And  gray -beards  looked  not  awful,  love, 

And  grandames  made  no  din, 
And  vows  were  not  unlawful,  love, 

And  kisses  were  no  sin. 

"And  do  you  never  dream,  love, 

Of  that  enchanted  well, 
Where  under  the  moonbeam,  love, 

The  Fairies  wove  their  spell  ? 
How  oft  we  saw  them  greeting,  love, 

Beneath  the  blasted  tree, 
And  heard  their  pale  feet  beating,  love, 

To  their  own  minstrelsy ! 

"  And  do  you  never  think,  love, 

Of  the  shallop  and  the  wave, 
And  the  willow  on  the  brink,  love, 

Over  the  poacher's  grave  ? 


THE    TliOTTBADOUR.  153 

Wliere  always  in  the  dark,  love, 

We  heard  a  heavy  sigh, 
And  the  dogs  were  vront  to  bark,  love, 

"Whenever  they  went  by  ? 

"  Then  gayly  shone  the  heaven,  love. 

On  life's  untroubled  sea, 
And  Vidal's  heart  was  given,  love, 

In  happiness  to  thee ; 
The  sea  is  all  benighted,  love, 

Tiie  heaven  has  ceased  to  shine ; 
The  heart  is  seared  and  blighted,  love. 

But  still  the  heart  is  thine !" 

He  paused  and  looked ;  he  paused  and  sighed ; 

None  appeared,  and  none  replied  : 

All  was  still  but  the  waters'  wail. 

And  the  tremulous  voice  of  the  nightingale. 

And  the  insects  buzzing  among  the  briers. 

And  the  nasal  note  of  the  four  fat  friars. 

"  Oh,  fly  with  me  !  'tis  Passion's  hour ; 

The  world  is  gone  to  sleep ; 
And  nothing  wakes  in  brake  or  bower. 

But  those  who  love  and  weep : 
This  is  the  golden  time  and  weather, 
When  songs  and  sighs  go  out  together. 
And  minstrels  pledge  the  rosy  wine 
To  lutes  like  this,  and  lips  like  thine  I 


154  THE    TKOUBADOUE. 

"  Oh,  fly  with  me !  my  courser's  flight 

Is  like  the  rushing  breeze, 
And  the  kind  moon  has  said  '  Good-night !' 

And  sunk  behind  the  trees  : 
The  lover's  voice — the  loved  one's  ear — 
There's  nothing  else  to  speak  and  hear ; 
And  we  will  say,  as  on  we  glide, 
That  nothing  lives  on  earth  beside ! 

"  Oh,  fly  with  me !  and  we  will  wing 

Our  white  skift'  o'er  the  waves, 
And  hear  the  Tritons  revelling, 

Among  their  coral  caves ; 
The  envious  Mermaid,  when  we  pass. 
Shall  cease  her  song,  and  drop  her  glass ; 
For  it  will  break  her  very  heart, 
To  see  how  fair  and  dear  thou  art. 

"  Oh,  fly  with  me  !  and  we  will  dwell 

Far  over  the  green  seas, 
TVhere  sadness  rings  no  parting  knell 

For  moments  such  as  these  ! 
Where  Italy's  unclouded  skies 
Look  brightly  down  on  brigliter  eyes, 
Or  where  the  wave-wed  City  smiles, 
Enthroned  upon  her  hundred  isles. 

"  Oh,  fly  with  me  !  by  these  sweet  strings 
Swept  o'er  by  Passion's  fingers. 


THE    TROUBADOUR.  155 

By  all  the  rocks,  and  vales,  and  springs, 

Where  Memory  lives  and  lingers, 
By  all  the  tongue  can  never  tell, 
By  all  the  heart  has  told  so  well. 
By  all  that  has  been  or  may  be, 
And  by  Love's  self — oh,  fly  with  me!" 

He  paused  again — no  sight  or  sound  ! 

The  still  air  rested  all  around  ; 

He  looked  to  the  tower,  and  he  looked  to  the 

tree, 
Night  was  as  still  as  night  could  be; 
Something  he  jnuttered  of  Prelate  and  Pope, 
And  took  from  his  mantle  a  silken  rope  ; 
Love  dares  much,  and  Love  climbs  well ! 
He  stands  by  the  Abbess  in  Violette's  cell. 
He  put  on  a  mask,  and  he  put  out  the  light ; 
The  Abbess  was  dressed  in  a  veil  of  white  ; 
Not  a  look  he  gave,  not  a  word  he  said ; 
The  pages  are  ready,  the  blanket  is  spread  ; 
He  has  clasped  his  arm  her  waist  about, 
And  lifted  the  screaming  Abbess  out : 
"My  horse  is  fleet,  and  my  hand  is  true, 
And  my  Squire  has  a  bow  of  deadly  yew  ; 
Away,  and  away,  over  mountain  and  moor ! 
Good  luck  to  the  love  of  the  gay  Troubadour!" 

"What!  rode  away  with  the  Abbess  behind  ! 
Lord!  sister!  is  tlie  Devil  blind ?" — 


156  THE    TKOUBADOUE. 

"Full  fourscore  winters!" — "Fast  and  prayi 
For  the  powers  of  darkness  figlit  to-day!" — 
"I  shan't  get  over  the  shock  for  a  week  !" — 
''Did  any  one  hear  our  Mother  shriek?" — 
"  Do  shut  your  mouth  !"— "  do  shut  the  cell  !"— 
"  What  a  villanous,  odious,  sulphury  smell!" — 
"  Has  the  Evil  One  taken  the  Mass-book  too?" — 
"  Ah  me!  what  will  poor  little  Violette  do  ? 
She  has  but  one  loaf  since  seven  o'clock  ; 
And  no  one  can  open  that  horrible  lock  ; 
And  Satan  will  grin  with  a  fiendish  glee, 
When  he  finds  the  Abbess  has  kept  the  key  !"— 
"  How  shall  we  manage  to  sleep  to^-night?" — 
"  I  woiildn't  for  worlds  put  out  my  liglit !" — 
"I'm  sure  I   shall    die   if  I  hear   but   a  mole 

stir!"— 
"I'll  clap  St.  Ursula  under  my  bolster!" 

But  oh!  the  pranks  tliat  Vidal  played, 

When  he  found  what  a  bargain  his  blindness 

had  made! 
Wilful  and  wild, — half  in  fun,  half  on  fire. 
He  stared  at  the  Abbess,  and  stormed   at  the 

Squire ! 
Consigned  to  perdition  all  silly  romancers. 
Asked  twenty  strange  questions,  and  stayed  for 

no  answers, 
Raving,  and  roaring,  and  laughing  by  lils, 
And  di'iving  the  old  woman  out  of  her  wits. 


tHE    TROUBADOUE.  161 

There  was  a  jousting  at  Chichester  ; 
It  had  made  in  the  country  a  mighty  stir. 
And  all  that  was  brave,  and  all  that  was  fair, 
And  all  that  was  neither,  came  trooping  there ; 
Scarfs  and  scars,  and  frays  and  frowns, 
And  flowery  speeches,  and  flowery  crowns. 
A  hundred  knights  set  spear  in  rest 
For  the  lady  they  deemed  the  loveliest. 
And  Yidal  broke  a  lance  that  day 
For  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula. 

There  was  a  feast  at  Arundel ; 
The  town-clerk  tolled  a  ponderous  bell, 
And  nothing  was  there  but  row  and  rout,- 
And  toil  to  get  in,  and  toil  to  get  out, 
And  Slierift's  fatter  than  their  venison. 
And  belles  that  never  stayed  for  benison. 
The  red  red  wine  was  mantling  there 
To  the  health  of  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 
And  Vidal  drained  the  cup  that  day 
To  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula. 

There  was  a  wedding  done  at  Bramber  ; 
The  town  was  full  of  myrrh  and  amber ; 
And  the  boors  were  roasting  valorous  beeves, 
And  the  boys  were  gathering  myrtle-leaves. 
And  the  bride  was  choosing  her  finest  flounces, 
And  the  bridegrooiu   was  scattering   coin  by 
ounces; 
Vol.  I.— 11 


158  THE    TROnDSaDOUE. 

And  every  stripling  danced  on  the  green 
With  the  girl  he  had  made  his  idol  queen, 
And  Yidal  led  the  dance  that  day 
With  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula. 

Three  days  had  passed  when  the  Abbess  came 
back ; 

Her  voice  was  out  of  tune, 
And  her  new  white  veil  was  gone  to  wrack, 

And  so  were  her  sandal  shoon. 
No  word  she  said ;    they  put  her  to  bed, 
With  a  pain  in  her  heels,  and  a  pain  in  her  head, 
And  she  talked  in  her  delirious  fever 
Of  a  high-trotting  horse,  and  a  black  deceiver; 
Of  music  and  merriment,  love  and  lances. 
Bridles  and  blasphemy,  dishes  and  dances. 

They  went  with  speed  to  the  dimgeon  door  ; 

The  air  was  chill  and  damp ; 
And  the  pale  girl  lay  on  the  marble  floor, 

Beside  the  dying  lamp. 
They  kissed  her  lijjs,  they  called  her  name, 
No  kiss  returned,  no  answer  came ; 
Motionless,  lifeless,  there  she  lay, 
Like  a  statue  rent  from  its  base  away ! 
They  said  by  famine  she  had  died  ; 
Yet  the  bread  untasted  lay  beside ; 
And  her  cheek  was  as  full,  and  fresh,  and  fair, 
As  it  had  been  when  warmth  was  there, 


THE    TROUBADOUR.  159 

And  her  eyes  were  unclosed,  and  tlieir  glassy 

rays 
Were  fixed  in  a  desolate,  dreamy  gaze, 
As  if  before  their  orbs  had  gone 
Some  sight  they  could  not  close  upon ; 
And    her   bright   brown  locks   all   gray   were 

grown  ; 
And  her  hands  were  clinched,  and  cold  as  stone  ; 

And  the  veins  upon  her  neck  and  brow 

But  she  was  dead  !— what  boots  it  how? 

In  holy  ground  she  was  not  laid  ; 

For  she  had  died  in  sin. 
And  good  St.  Ursula  forbade 

That  such  should  enter  in ; 
But  in  a  calm  and  cold  retreat 

They  made  her  place  of  rest, 
And  laid  her  in  her  winding-sheet. 

And  left  her  there  unblessed ; 
And  set  a  small  stone  at  her  head, 

Under  a  spreading  tree  ; 
'■'■Orate''' — that  was  all  it  said  — 

'■'■Orate  Mo  pro  me .'" 

And  Vidal  came  at  night,  alone. 

And  tore  his  shining  hair. 
And  laid  him  down  beside  the  stone, 

And  wept  till  daybreak  there. 


160  THE    TKOUBADOUK. 

"  Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well, 
Most  beautiful  of  earthly  things  ! 

I  will  not  bid  thy  spirit  stay, 
Nor  link  to  earth  those  glittering  wingg, 

That  burst  like  light  away  ! 
I  know  that  thou  art  gone  to  dwell 
In  the  sunny  home  of  the  fresh  day-beam, 

Before  decay's  unpitying  tread 
Hath  crept  upon  the  dearest  dream 

That  ever  came  and  fled ; 

Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well ; 
And  go  thy  way,  all  pure  and  fair, 

Into  the  starry  firmament ; 
And  wander  there  with  the  spirits  of  air, 

As  bright  and  innocent ! 

"  Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well ! 
Strange  feet  will  be  upon  thy  clay. 

And  never  stop  to  sigh  or  sorrow ; 
Yet  many  wept  for  thee  to-day. 
And  one  will  weep  to-morrow : 
Alas !  that  melancholy  knell 
Shall  often  wake  my  wondering  ear, 

And  thou  slialt  greet  me,  for  a  while, 
Too  beautiful  to  make  me  fear, 
Too  sad  to  let  me  smile ! 
Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well ! 
I  know  that  heaven  for  thee  is  won ; 
And  yet  I  feel  I  would  resign 


THE    TKOUBADOUB.  161 

Whole  ages  of  my  life,  for  one — 
One  little  hour,  of  thine  ! 

"Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well ! 
See,  I  have  been  to  the  sweetest  bowers, 

And  culled  from  garden  and  from  heatli 
The  tenderest  of  all  tender  flowers, 

And  blended  in  my  wreath 
The  Anolet  and  the  blue  harebell, 
And  one  frail  rose  in  its  earliest  bloom  ; 

Alas  !  I  meant  it  for  thy  hair, 
And  now  I  fling  it  on  thy  tomb, 

To  weep  and  wither  there  I 
Fare  ye  well,  fare  ye  well ! 
Sleep,  sleep,  my  love,  in  fragrant  shade. 

Droop,  droop  to-night,  thou  blushing  token; 
A  fairer  flower  shall  never  fade, 

Nor  a  fonder  heart  be  broken!" 


It  is  the  hoar,  the  lonely  hour. 
Which  desolate  rhymers  love  to  praise, 

Wlien  listless  they  lie  in  brake  or  bower, 
In  dread  of  their  duns,  or  in  dreams  of  their 
bays; 

*  The  Tp.orBADOru  was  never  finished.  Fragments  onlyol 
the  third  Canto  have  been  found,  written  upon  stray  leaves 
of  paper. 


162  THE    TEOUBADOUE. 

The  glowing  Sun  has  gone  away 
To  cool  his  face  in  the  ocean  sprav, 

And  the  stars  shine  ont  in  the  liquid  blue, 
And  the  beams  of  the  moon  in  silence  fall 
On  rock  and  river,  wood  and  wall, 
Flinging  alike  on  each  and  all 

A  silver  ray  and  a  sober  hue. 
The  village  casements  all  are  dark, 
The  chase  is  done  in  the  princely  park, 
The  scholar  has  closed  the  volume  old, 
And  the  miser  has  counted  the  bnried  gold  ; 
There  is  not  a  foot  and  there  is  not  a  gale 
To  shake  the  roses  in  Eingmore  Vale ; 
There  is  not  a  bird,  the  groves  along. 
To  wake  the  night  with  his  gnshing  song  ; 
Nothing  is  heard  but  sounds  that  render 
Tlie  rest  which  tliey  disturb  more  tender ; 
The  ghissy  river  wanders  still. 
Making  low  music  round  the  hill ; 
And  the  last  faint  drops  of  the  shower  that  felJ 
While  the  monks  were  ringing  the  vesper  bell 
Are  trickling  yet  from  leaf  to  leaf, 
Like  the  big,  slow  drops  of  an  untold  grief. 

At  that  late  hour  a  little  boat 

Came  dancing  down  the  wave  ; 
There  were  none  but  the  Moon  to  see  it  float ; 

And  she,  so  very  grave. 
Looked  down  upon  the  quiet  spot 


i 


THE    TROUBADOUK.  163 

As  if  she  heard  and  heeded  not 

The  eloquent  vows  which  passion  drew 

From  lips  of  beauty's  tenderest  hue, 

And  saw  without  the  least  surprise 

The  glances  of  the  youthful  eyes, 

Which,  in  the  warm  and  perilous  weather, 

Were  gazing  by  night  on  the  stream  together. 

****** 

****** 

Sometimes,  upon  a  gala  night, 
Beneath  the  torches'  festal  light. 
When  I  have  seen  your  footsteps  glance. 
Sweet  sister,  through  the  merry  dance. 
Light  as  the  wind  that  scarcely  heaves 
The  softest  of  the  soft  rose-leaves 

In  summer's  sunniest  hour, — 
Sometimes,  upon  the  level  shore 
Washed  by  the  sea-wave  just  before, 
When  I  have  seen  your  palfrey  glide 
Along  the  margin  of  the  tide. 
As  fleet  as  some  imagined  form 
That  smiles  in  calm,  or  frowns  in  storm. 

Before  the  minstrel's  bower, — 
One  moment  I  have  ceased  to  doubt 
The  tales  which  poets  pass  about. 
Of  Fairies  and  their  golden  wings. 
Their  earthward  whims  and  wanderings, 
The  mummeries  in  which  they  traded, 


164:  THE    TEOU-BADOUE. 

The  houses  where  they  masqueraded, 

The  half  unearthly  tone  they  spoke, 

The  half  unearthly  thought  they  woke, 

The  rich  they  plagued,  the  poor  they  righted. 

The  heads  they  posed,  the  hearts  they  blighted  ! 

So  fancied  Vidal,  when  he  gazed 

Upon  a  hundred  glancing  eyes, 
"While  high  in  hall  the  torches  blazed. 

And  all  the  blended  witcheries 
That  clothe  the  revel  of  the  night, 

The  dance's  most  voluptuous  rounds, 
And  Beauty's  most  enthralling  light. 

And  music's  most  entrancing  sounds, 
And  many  a  tale,  and  many  a  song, 

Which  only  Passion  sings  and  tells, 
Aud  dreams,  most  dazzling  when  most  wrong, 

Wove  o'er  him  their  delicious  spells. 
It  was  a  long  and  spacious  hall ; 

The  limner's  hand  had  wandered  there. 
And  peopled  half  the  lofty  wall 

With  wondrous  forms  of  great  and  fair ; 
And  in  small  niches  shapes  of  stone 

Looked  soft  aud  white,  like  winter  snow. 
Queen  Venus  with  her  haunted  zone, 

Prince  Cupid  with  his  bended  bow  ; 
And  there  were  brooks  of  essenced  waters ; 

And  mighty  mirrors  half  a  score 
To  tell  the  Baron's  lovely  daughters 


THE    TROUBADOUR.  165 

What  all  their  maids  had  told  before  ; 
And  here  an  amorous  lord  was  singing 

Of  honour's   reign,  or  battle's  rout; 
And  there  a  giggling  page  was  flinging 

Haudfuls  of  odorous  flowers  about ; 
And  wine  and  wit  were  poured  together 

From  many  a  lip,  from  many  a  can ; 
And  barons  bowed  beneath  a  feather, 

And  beauties  blushed  behind  a  fan  ; 
And  all  were  listening,  laughing,  chattering. 

Playing  the  fiddle  and  the  fool. 
And  metaphorically  flattering, 

According  to  established  rule. 
"  If  that  bright  glance  did  gleam  on  me, 
How  scarred  and  scorched  my  soul  would  be! 
For  even  as  the  golden  sun" — 
"My  Lord  of  Oourcy,  pray  have  done  !" — 
"I  would  I  were  a  little  bird. 
That  I  might  evermore  be  heard 
Discoursing  love,  when  morning's  air"— 
"Bonne  grace.  Sir  Knight,  I  would  yon  were!" 
"  Mort  de  ma  vie !  the  sea  is  deep, 
And  Dover  cliiTs  are  very  steep, 
And  if  I  spring  into  the  main" — 
"  Sir  Knight,  you'll  scarce  spring  out  again !" 
"This  breast  of  mine  is  all  a  book ; 
And  if  her  beauteous  eyes  would  look 
Upon  the  pale,  transparent  leaves, 
And  mark  how  all  tlie  volume  grieves" — 


166  THE    TROUBADODB. 

"Sweet  Count,  who  cares  what  tales  it  tells' 
The  title's  all  your  mistress  spells." — 
"My  faithful  shield,  my  faithful  heart! 
Oh !  both  are  pierced  with  many  a  dart ; 
And,  Lady,  both,  through  flood  and  flame, 
Bear  uneflfaced  thy  beauteous  name ; 
And  both  are  stainless  as  a  lake" — 
"And  both  are  very  hard  to  break!" 

Thus  deftly  all  did  play  their  part. 

The  valiant  and  the  fair. 
And  Vidal's  was  the  lightest  heart 

Of  all  that  trifled  there. 
Some  six-and-twenty  springs  liad  past 

In  more  of  smiles  than  tears ; 
And  boyhood's  dreams  had  fleeted  fast 

With  boyhood's  fleeting  years  ! 
His  voice  was  sweet,  but  deeper  now 

Than  when  its  songs  were  new ; 
And  o'er  his  cheek,  and  o'er  his  brow. 

There  fell  a  darker  hue ; 
His  eye  had  learned  a  calmer  ray, 

By  browner  ringlets  shaded  ; 
And  from  his  lips  the  sunny  play 

Of  their  warm  smile  had  faded ; 
And  out,  alas  !  the  perished  thrill 

Of  feeling's  careless  flashes. 
The  glistening  flames,  that  now  were  chill 

In  darkness,  dust,  and  ashes, 


THE    TKOUBADOUK.  1G7 

The  joys  that  wound,  the  pains  that  hless, 

Were  all,  were  all  departed ; 
And  he  was  wise  and  passionless. 

And  happy  and  cold-hearted. 
It  was  not  that  the  hrand  of  sin 
Had  stamped  its  deadly  blot  Avithin  ; 
Tiiat  riches  had  been  basely  won, 
Or  midnight  murder  darkly  done ; 
That  Valour's  ardent  glow  had  died, 
OrJEIonour  lost  its  truth  and  pride : 
Oh,  no!  but  VidaPs  joy  and  grief 
Had  been  too  common,  and  too  brief! 
The  weariness  of  human  things 
Had  dried  affection's  silent  springs, 
And  round  his  very  heart  had  cui-led 
The  poisons  of  the  drowsy  world. 
And  he  had  conned  the  bitter  lie 
Of  Fashion's  dull  philosophy  ; 
How  friendship  is  a  schoolboy's  tlieme. 
And  constancy  a  madman's  dream, 
And  majesty  a  mouldering  bust, 
And  loveliness  a  pinch  of  dust. 
And  so — for  -when  the  wicked  jest 
The  renegade  blasphemes  the  best — 
He  crushed  the  hopes  which  once  he  felt, 
And  mocked  the  shrines  where  once  he  knelt, 
And  taught  that  only  fools  endure 
To  find  aught  human  good  and  \nn-e. 


168  THE    TEOUBADOUK. 

And  yet  his  heart  was  very  light, 

His  taste  was  very  fine ; 
His  rapier  and  his  wit  were  bright, 

His  attitudes  divine : 
He  taught  how  snowy  arms  sliould  rise. 

How  snowy  plumes  should  droop  ; 
And  piiblished  rhapsodies  on  sighs. 

And  lectures  upon  soup  ; 
He  was  the  arbiter  of  bets. 

The  fashioner  of  phrases ;  • 

And  harpers  sang  his  canzonets, 

And  peeresses  his  praises. 
And  when,  at  some  high  dame's  command, 
Upon  the  lyre  he  laid  his  hand. 
As  now  to-night,  and  flung  aside 
His  sill-cen  mantle's  crimson  pride, 
And  o'er  the  strings  so  idly  leant, 
That  you  might  think  the  instrumerit 
Unwaked  by  any  touch  replied 
To  all  its  master  said  or  siglicd. 
All  other  occupations  ceased ; 
The  revellers  rose  from  cup  and  feast. 
Young  pages  paused  from  scattering  posies, 
Old  knights  forgot  to  blow  their  noses, 
And  daughters  smiled,  and  mothers  frowned, 
And  peers  beat  time  upon  the  ground  ; 
And  Beauty  bowed  her  silent  praise, 
Which  is  so  dear  to  minstrel  lays ; 
And  Envy  dropped  her  wbispered  gall, 
Which  is  the  dearcr^t  i)raisc  of  all. 


THE    TROUBADOUR.  169 

That  night,  amid  the  motley  crowd, 

In  graver  than  his  wonted  mood, 
When  other  lips  were  gay  and  lond. 

The  Trouhadour  had  silent  stood  : 
Perhaps  some  dreams  of  those  young  hour.? 

Whose  light  was  now  all  cold  and  dim. 
Some  visions  of  the  f;ided  flowers 

Whose  buds  had  bloomed  their  last  for  him, 
Came  in  their  secret  beauty  back, 

Like  fairy  elves,  whose  footsteps  steal 
Unseen,  unheard,  upon  their  track, 

Except  to  those  they  harm  or  heal. 
Oh!  often  will  a  look  or  sigh, 

Unmarked  by  other  eyes  or  ears, 
Recall,  we  know  not  whence  or  why, 

Sad  thoughts  that  have  been  dead  for  years : 
For  sunset  leaves  the  river  warm 

Through  evening's  most  benumbing  chill; 
And  when  the  present  cannot  charm, 

The  past  can  live  and  torture  stil] ! 

Yet  now,  as  if  the  secret  spell 

That  bound  his  inmost  soul  were  broken. 
He  taught  his  harp  a  lighter  swell 

Than  ever  yet  its  strings  had  spoken ; 
And  those  who  saw,  and  watched  the  while, 

The  smile  that  came,  the  frown  that  faded, 
Could  hardly  tell  if  frown,  or  smile, 

Or  both,  or  neither,  masqueraded. 


170  THE    TEOHBADOTIK. 

"  Clotilda !  many  hearts  are  light, 

And  many  lips  dissemble ; 
But  I  am  thine  till  priests  shall  fight, 

Or  Ooeur  de  Lion  tremble ! — 
Hath  Jerome  burned  his  rosary, 

Or  Richard  shrunk  from  slaughter  ? 
Oh!  no,  no. 
Dream  not  so ! 
But  till  you  mean  your  hopes  to  die, 

Engrave  them  not  in  water ! 

"Sweet  Ida,  on  my  lonely  way 

Those  tears  I  will  remember. 
Till  icicles  shall  cling  to  May, 

Or  roses  to  December ! — 
Are  snow-wreaths  bound  on  Summer's  brow  ? 

Is  drowsy  Winter  waking  ? 
Oh!  no,  no, 
Dream  not  so ! 
But  lances,  and  a  lover's  vow, 

Were  only  made  for  breaking. 

"  Lenora,  I  am  faithful  still, 

By  all  the  saints  that  listen. 
Till  this  warm  heart  shall  cease  to  thrill, 

Or  these  wild  veins  to  gUsten  ! — 
This  bosom — is  its  pulse  less  high  ? 
Or  sleeps  the  stream  within  it? 
Oh !  no,  no. 
Dream  not  so ! 


THE    TKOUBADOUK.  171 

But  lovers  find  eternity 
In  less  than  half  a  minute. 

"  And  thus  to  thee  I  swear  to-night, 

By  thine  own  lips  and  tresses, 
That  I  will  take  no  further  flight, 

Nor  break  again  my  jesses : 
And  wilt  thou  trust  the  faith  I  vowed, 

And  dream  in  spite  of  warning? 
Oh !  no,  no, 
Dream  not  so ! 
But  go  and  lure  the  midnight  cloud, 

Or  chain  the  mist  of  morning. 

"These  words  of  mine,  so  false  and  bland, 

Forget  that  they  were  spoken  ! 
The  ring  is  on  thy  radiant  hand — 
•    Dash  down  the  faithless  token ! 
And  will  they  say  that  Beauty  sinned. 

That  Woman  turned  a  rover  ? 
Oh !  no,  no, 
Dream  not  so ! 
But  lovers'  vows  arc  like  the  wind, 

And  Vidal  is  a  Lover!" 

Ere  the  last  echo  of  the  Avords 
Died  on  the  lip  and  on  the  chords, 
The  Baron's  jester,  who  was  clever 
At  blighting  characters  forever, 


172  THE    TROUBADOUR. 

And  whom  all  people  thought  delightful, 

Because  he  was  so  very  spiteful, 

Stooped  down  to  tie  his  sandal's  string, 

And  found  by  chance  a  lady's  ring ; 

So  small  and  slight,  it  scarce  had  spanned 

The  finger  of  a  fairy's  hand — 

Or  thine,  sweet  Rose,  whose  hand  and  wrist 

Are  much  the  least  I  ever  kissed : — 

Upon  the  ruby  it  enclosed 

A  bleeding  heart  in  peace  reposed, 

And  round  was  graved  in  letters  clear  : 

"Let  by  the  month,  or  by  the  year." 

Young  Pacolet,  from  ring  and  song. 

Thought  something  might  be  somewhere  wrong, 

And  round  the  room  in  transport  flitted 

To  find  whose  hand  the  bauble  fitted. 

He  was  an  ugly,  dwarfish  knave,  » 

Most  gravely  wild,  most  wildly  grave ; 

It  seemed  that  Nature,  in  a  whim. 

Had  mixed  a  dozen  shapes  in  him ; 

One  arm  was  longer  than  tlie  other. 

One  leg  was  running  from  his  brother, 

And  one  dark  eye,  with  fondest  labour, 

Coquetted  with  his  fairer  neighbour  : 

His  colour  ever  came  and  went. 

Like  clouds  upon  the  firmament. 

And  yet  his  cheeks,  in  ajiy  weather. 

Were  never  known  to  blush  together : 


THE    TROUBADOUR.  173 

To-day  his  voice  was  shrill  and  harsh, 

Like  homilies  from  Doctor  Marsh ; 

To-morrow  from  his  rosy  lip 

The  sweetest  of  sweet  sounds  would  trip ; 

Far  sweeter  than  the  song  of  birds, 

Or  the  first  lisp  of  Childhood's  words, 

Or  zephyrs  soft,  or  waters  clear, 

Or  Love's  own  vow  to  Love's  own  ear. 

Such  were  the  tones  he  murmured  now, 

As,  wreathing  lip  and  cheek  and  brow 

Into  a  smile  of  wicked  glee. 

He  begged  upon  his  bended  knee 

That  maid  and  matron,  young  and  old, 

Woi;ld  try  the  glittering  hoop  of  gold. 

But  then,  as  usual  in  such  cases, 
All  sorts  of  pretty  airs  and  graces 
Were  played  by  nymphs,  whose  hands  and  ann.c 
Had,  or  had  not,  a  host  of  charms : 
And  there  were  frowns,  as  wrists  were  barod, 
And  wonderings  "  how  some  people  dared,'' 
And  much  reluctance  and  disdain. 
Which  some  might  feel,  and  all  could  feign  ; 
And  witty  looks,  and  whispered  guesses. 
And  running  into  dark  recesses. 
And  pointless  gibes,  and  toothless  chuckles, 
And  pinching  disobedient  knuckles, 
And  cunning  thefts  by  watchful  lovers, 
Wbich  filled  the  pockets  of  the  glovers. 
Vol.  L— 12 


174  THE    TEOUBAJ)OCR. 

'Twas  very  vain  ;  it  seemed  that  all, 
Except  the  mistress  of  the  Hall, 
Had  done  the  utmost  thej  could  do. 
And  made  their  fingers  black  and  blue, 
And  there  they  were,  the  gem  and  donor, 
AVithout  a  mistress,  or  an  owner. 

But  while  the  toy  was  vainly  tried. 

The  ugly  Baron's  handsome  bride 

Had  sate  apart  from  that  rude  game 

And  listened  to  the  sighs  of  flame. 

Which  followed  her  from  night  to  morning, 

In  spite  of  frowning  and  of  scorning. 

Bred  up  from  youth  with  naught  before  her 

But  humble  slave  and  fond  adorer, 

111  could  that  haughty  Lady  brook 

A  bantering  phrase  or  brazen  look  ; 

Day  passed,  and  Night  came  hurrying  down 
With  her  heaviest  step,  and  her  darkest  frown  ; 
Not  witchingly  mild,  as  when  she  hushes 
The  first  warm  thrill  of  woman's  blushes  ; 
Or  mellows  the  eloquent  murmur  made 
By  some  mad  minstrel's  serenade  ; 
But  robed  in  the  clouds  her  anger  flings 
O'er  the  murderer's  midnight  wanderings. 
The  stealthy  step,  and  the  naked  knife. 
The  sudden  blow,  and  the  parting  life !— 


THE    TKOL'BADOUK.  175 

On  the  snow  that  was  sleeping  its  frozen  sleep 
Round  cabin  and  castle,  white  and  deep, 
The  love-stricken  boy  might  have  wandered  far 
Ere  he  found  for  his  sonnet  a  single  star ; 
And  over  the  copse,  and  over  the  dell, 
The  mantle  of  mist  so  drearily  fell, 
That  the  fondest  and  bravest  could  hardly  know 
The  smile  of  his  queen  from  the  sneer  of  his  foe. 
In  the  lonely  cot  on  the  lorn  hill-side 
The  serf  grew  pale  as  he  looked  on  his  bride ; 
And  oft,  as  the  Baron's  courtly  throng- 
Were  loud  in  the  revel  of  wine  and  song. 
The  blast  at  the  gate  made  such  a  din 
As  changed  to  horror  the  mirth  within ! 


(1823-1824.) 


176       LEGEND    OF   THE    HAUNTED    TREE. 


THE    LEGEND    OF    THE    HAUXTED 
TREE. 

"  Deep  is  the  bliss  of  tlie  belted  kniglit, 
When  be  kisses  at  dawn  the  silken  glove, 

And  goes,  in  bis  glittering  armour  dight, 
To  sbiver  a  lance  for  bis  lady-love ! 

"Lightly  he  couches  the  beaming  spear; 

His  mistress  sits  w^ith  her  maidens  by, 
Watching  the  speed  of  his  swift  career, 

With  a  whispered  prayer  and  a  murmnrcd 
sigh. 

"Far  from  me  is  the  gazing  throng, 
The  blazoned  shield,  and  the  nodding  plume  ; 

Jfothing  is  mine  but  a  worthless  song, 
A  joyless  life,  and  a  nameless  tomb." 

"  Nay,  dearest  Wilfrid,  lay  like  this, 
On  such  an  eve,  is  much  amiss : 
Our  mirth  beneath  the  new  May  moon 
Should  echoed  be  by  livelier  tune. 
What  need  to  thee  of  mail  and  crest. 
Of  foot  in  stirrup,  spear  in  rest  ? 


LEGEND   OF   THE   HATINTED   TREE.       177 

Over  far  inountains  and  deep  seas, 
Earth  hath  no  fairer  fields  than  these ; 
And  who,  in  Beauty's  gaudiest  bowers, 
Can  love  thee  with  more  love  than  ours?" 

The  minstrel  turned  with  a  moody  look 

From  that  sweet  scene  of  guiltless  glee  ; 
From  the  old  who  talked  beside  the  brook. 

And  the  young  who  danced  beneath  the  tree : 
Coldly  he  shrank  from  the  gentle  maid, 

From  the  chiding  look  and  the  pleading  tone ; 
And  he  passed  from  the  old  eiin's  hoary  shade, 

And  followed  the  forest-path  alone. 
One  little  sigh,  one  pettish  glance. 

And  the  girl  comes  back  to  her  playmates 
now, 
And  takes  her  place  in  the  merry  dance, 

With  a  slower  step  and  a  sadder  brow. 

"  My  soul  is  sick,"  saith  the  wayward  boy, 

"Of  the  peasant's  grief,  and  the  peasant's  joy ; 

I  cannot  breathe  on  from  day  to  day, 

Like  the  insects  which,  our  wise  men  say, 

In  the  crevice  of  the  cold  rock  dwell, 

Till  their  shape  is  the  shape  of  their  dungeon's 

cell ; 
In  the  dull  repose  of  our  changeless  life, 
[  long  for  passion,  I  long  for  strife, 
.is  in  the  calm  the  mariner  sighs 


178   LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUKTED  TEEE. 

For  rushing  waves  and  groaning  skiea. 

Oil  for  the  lists,  the  lists  of  fame  ! 

Oh  for  the  herald's  glad  acclaim  ; 

For  floating  pennon  and  prancing  steed, 

And  Beauty's  wonder  at  Manhood's  deed!" 

Beneath  an  ancient  oak  he  lay ; 

More  years  than  man  can  connt,^  they  say, 

On  the  verge  of  the  dim  and  solemn  wood. 

Through  sunshine  and  storm  that  oak  had  .--.lood. 

Yet  were  it  hard  to  trace  a  sign 

On  trunk  or  bough  of  that  oak's  decline  : 

Many  a  loving,  laughing  sprite, 

Tended  the  branches  by  day  and  by  night ; 

Fettered  the  winds  that  would  invade 

The  quiet  of  its  sacred  shade. 

And  drove  in  a  serried  phalanx  back 

The  red-eyed  lightning's  fierce  attack  : 

So  the  leaves  of  its  age  were  as  fresh  and  as  green 

As  the  leaves  of  its  early  youth  had  been. 

Fretful  brain  and  turbid  breast 

Under  its  canopy  ill  would  rest; 

For  she  that  ruled  the  revels  therein 

Loved  not  the  taint  of  human  sin  : 

Moody  brow  with  an  evil  eye 

Would  the  Queen  of  the  Fairy  people  spy ; 

Sullen  tone  with  an  angry  ear 

"Would  the  Queen  of  the  Fairy  people  hear. 

Oft  would  she  mock  the  worldling's  care 

E'en  in  the  grant  of  his  unwise  prayer, 


LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.   170 

Scattering  wealth  that  was  not  gain, 
Lavisliing  joy  that  turned  to  pain. 
Pure  of  tliouglit  should  the  mortal  be 
That  would  sleep  beneath  the  Haunted  Tree : 
That  night  the  minstrel  laid  him  down 
Ere  his  brow  relaxed  its  peevish  frown ; 
And  Slumber  had  bound  his  eyelids  fast, 
Ere  the  evil  wish  from  his  soul  had  passed. 
And  a  song  on  the  sleeper's  ear  descended, 

A  song  it  Avas  pain  to  hear,  and  pleasure, 
So  strangely  wrath  and  love  were  blended 

In  every  note  of  the  mystic  measure  : — 

"  T  know  thee,  child  of  earth  ; 

The  morning  of  thy  birth 
In  through  the  lattice  did  my  chariot  glide  ; 

I  saw  thy  father  weep 

Over  thy  first  wild  sleep, 
I  rocked  thy  cradle  when  thy  mother  died. 

"  And  I  have  seen  thee  gaze 

Upon  these  birks  and  braes, 
Which  are  my  kingdoms,  with  irreverent  scorn ; 

And  heard  thee  pour  reproof 

Upon  the  vine-clad  roof, 
Beneath  whose  peaceful  shelter  thou  wast  born. 

"  I  bind  thee  in  the  snare 
Of  thine  unholy  prayer ; 


180    LEGEND  OF  THE  HArNTED  TEEE. 

I  seal  thy  foreliead  with  a  viewless  seal : 

I  give  into  thine  hand 

The  buckler  and  the  brand, 
And  clasp  the  golden  spur  upon  thy  heel. 

"  "When  thou  hast  made  thee  wise 

In  the  sad  lore  of  sighs, 
When  the  world's  visions  fail  thee  and  forsake, 

Return,  return  to  me, 

And  to  my  haunted  tree  ; 
The  charm  hath  bound  thee  now :  Sir  Kniglit, 

awake !" 

Sir  Isumbras,  in  doubt  and  dread. 

From  his  feverish  sleep  awoke, 
And  started  up  from  his  grassy  bed 

Under  the  ancient  oak. 
And  he  called  the  page  who  held  his  spear. 

And,  "  Tell  me,  boy,"  quoth  he, 
"  How  long  have  I  been  slumbering  here, 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree?" — 
"  Ere  thou  didst  sleep,  I  chanced  to  throw 

A  stone  into  the  rill ; 
And  the  ripple  that  disturbed  its  lUiw 

Is  on  its  surface  still ; 
Ere  thou  didst  sleep,  thou  bad'st  me  sing 

King  Arthur's  favourite  lay  ; 
And  the  first  echo  of  the  string 

Has  hardly  died  away." 


LEGEND   OF   THE   HAUNTED   TEEE.       181 

"How   strange   is   Sleep!"    the   young  knight 

said, 
As  he  clasped  the  helm  upon  his  head, 
And,  mounting  again  his  courser  black, 
To  his  gloomy  tower  rode  slowly  back  : 
"  How  strange    is  Sleep !  when  his  dark  spell 

lies 
On  the  drowsy  lids  of  liuman  eyes. 
The  years  of  a  life  will  float  along 
In  the  compass  of  a  page's  song. 
Methought  I  lived  in  a  pleasant  vale, 
The  haunt  of  the  lark  and  the  niglitingale. 
Where  the  summer  rose  had  a  brighter  hue. 
And  the  noonday  sky  a  clearer  blue. 
And  the  spirit  of  man  in  age  and  youth 
A  fonder  love,  and  a  firmer  truth. 
And  I  lived  on,  a  fair-haired  boy, 
In  that  sweet  vale  of  tranquil  joy; 
Until  at  last  my  vain  caprice 
Grew  weary  of  its  bliss  and  peace. 
And  one  there  was,  most  dear  and  fair, 
Of  all  that  smiled  around  me  there — 
A  gentle  maid,  with  a  cloudless  face, 
And  a  form  so  full  of  fairy  grace  ; 
"Who,  when  I  turned  with  scornful  spleen 
From  the  feast  in  the  bower,  or  the  dance  on 

the  green, 
Would  humour  all  my  wayward  will, 
A.nd  love  me  and  forgive  me  still. 


182      LEGEND   OF    THE    HATJNTED   TREE. 

Even  now,  methinks,  her  smile  of  light 

Is  there  before  me,  mild  and  bright  •, 

And  I  hear  her  voice  of  fond  reproof, 

Between  the  beats  of  my  palfrey's  hoof. 

'Tis  idle  all :  but  I  could  weep  ; — 

Alas !"  said  the  knight,  "  how  strange  is  sleep  1" 

He  struck  with  his  spear  the  brazen  plate 

That  gleamed  before  the  castle-gate  ; 

The  torch  threw  high  its  waves  of  flame 

As  forth  the  watchful  menials  came  ; 

They  lighted  the  way  to  the  banquet-hall, 

They  hung  the  shield  upon  the  wall, 

They  spread  the  board,  and  they  filled  the  bowl, 

And  the  phantoms  passed  from  his  troubled  soul. 

For  all  the  ailments  which  infest 
A  solitary  Briton's  breast, 
The  peccant  humours  which  defile 
The  thoughts  in  this  fog-haunted  isle. 
Whatever  name  or  style  they  bear — 
Reflection,  study,  nerves,  or  care, 
There's  naught  of  such  Lethean  power 
As  dinner  at  the  dinner-hour. 
Sefton  !  the  Premier,  o'er  thy  plate. 
Thinks  little  of  last  night's  debate  ; 
Cowan !  the  merchant,  in  thy  hall. 
Grows  careless  what  may  rise  or  fall ; 
The  wit  who  feeds  can  puft'  away 
His  unsold  tale,  his  unheard  play  ; 


LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TEEE.   183 

And  Mr.  "Wellesley  Pole  forgets, 

At  eight  o'clock,  his  duns  and  debts. 

The  Knight  approved  the  roasted  boar, 

A.nd  mused  upon  his  dream  no  more : 

The  Knight  enjoyed  the  bright  champagne, 

And  deemed  himself  himself  again. 

Sir  Isumbras  was  ever  found 

Where  blows  were  struck  for  glory ; 
There  sate  not  at  the  Table  Round 

A  knight  more  famed  in  story  : 
The  king  on  his  throne  would  turn  about 

To  see  his  courser  prancing  ; 
And,  when  Sir  Launcelot  had  gout. 

The  queen  would  praise  his  dancing. 
He  quite  wore  out  his  father's  spurs, 

Performing  valour's  duties — 
Destroying  mighty  sorcerers. 

Avenging  injured  beauties, 
And  crossing  many  a  trackless  sand, 

And  rescuing  people's  daughters 
From  dragons  that  infest  the  land. 

And  whales  that  walk  the  waters. 
He  throttled  lions  by  the  score, 

And  giants  by  the  dozen ; 
And,  for  his  skill  in  lettered  lore, 

They  called  him  "Merlin's  Cousin." 
A  troop  of  steeds,  with  bit  and  rein. 

Stood  ready  in  his  stable ; 


184   LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TEEE. 

An  ox  was  every  morning  slain, 

And  roasted  for  his  table. 
And  he  had  friends,  all  brave  and  tall, 

And  crowned  with  praise  and  laurel, 
Who  kindly  feasted  in  his  hall, 

And  jousted  in  his  quarrel ; 
And  minstrels  came  and  sang  his  fame 

In  very  rugged  verses ; 
And  they  were  paid  with  wine  and  game, 

And  rings,  and  cups,  and  purses. 

And  he  loved  a  Lady  of  high  degree, 

Faith's  fortress.  Beauty's  flower ; 
A  countess  for  her  maid  had  she. 

And  a  kingdom  for  her  dower ; 
And  a  brow  whose  frowns  were  vastly  grand, 

And  an  eye  of  sunlit  brightness, 
And  a  swan-like  neck,  and  an  arm  and  hand 

Of  most  bewitching  whiteness  ; 
And  a  voice  of  music,  whose  sweet  tones 

Could  most  divinely  prattle 
Of  battered  casques,  and  broken  bones, 

And  all  the  bliss  of  battle. 
He  wore  her  scarf  in  many  a  fray. 

He  trained  her  hawks  and  ponies, 
And  filled  her  kitchen  every  day 

With  leverets  and  conies  ; 
He  loved,  and  he  was  loved  again : — 

I  won't  waste  time  in  proving. 


LEGEND    OF   THE    HAUNTED   TKEE,        185 

There  is  no  pleasure  like  the  pain 
Of  being  loved,  and  loving. 

Dame  Fortune  is  a  fickle  gjpsy, 
And  always  blind,  and  often  tipsy  ; 
Sometimes,  for  years  and  years  together, 
SheUl  bless  you  with  the  sunniest  weather, 
Bestowing  honour,  pudding,  pence, 
You  can't  imagine  why,  or  whence  ;^ 
Then  in  a  moment — Presto,  pass! — 
Your  joys  are  withered  like  the  grass; 
You  find  your  constitution  vanish, 
Almost  as  quickly  as  the  Spanish ; 
The  murrain  spoils  your  flocks  and  fleeces ; 
The  dry  rot  pulls  your  house  to  pieces ; 
Your  garden  raises  only  weeds  ; 
Y'our  agent  steals  your  title-deeds ; 
Your  banker's  failure  stuns  the  city; 
Your  fixther's  will  makes  Sugden  witty  ; 
Your  daughter,  in  her  beauty's  bloom. 
Goes  off  to  Gretna  with  the  groom  ; 
And  you,  good  man,  are  left  alone, 
To  battle  with  the  gout  and  stone. 

Ere  long,  Sir  Isumbras  began 
To  be  a  sad  and  thoughtful  man  : 
They  said  the  glance  of  an  evil  eye 
Had  been  on  the  Knight's  prosperity : 
Less  swift  on  the  quarry  his  falcon  went. 


186   LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TKEE. 

Less  true  was  his  hound  on  the  wild  deer's  scent, 

And  thrice  in  the  list  he  came  to  the  earth 

By  the  luckless  chance  of  a  broken  girth. 

And  Poverty  soon  in  her  rags  was  seen 

At  the  board  where  Plenty  erst  had  been ; 

And  the  guests  smiled  not  as  they  smiled  before, 

And  the  song  of  the  minstrel  was  heard  no  more ; 

And  a  base  ingrate,  who  was  his  foe. 

Because,  a  little  month  ago, 

He  had  cut  him  down,  with  friendly  ardour. 

From  a  rusty  hook  in  an  ogre's  larder. 

Invented  an  atrocious  fable, 

And  ruined  him  quite  at  the  Royal  Table : 

And  she  at  last,  the  worshipped  one. 

For  whom  his  valorous  deeds  were  done, 

The  star  of  all  his  soul's  reflections, 

The  rose  of  all  his  heart's  affections, 

"Who  had  heard  his  vows  and  worn  his  jewels. 

And  made  him  fight  so  many  duels — 

She,  too,  when  Fate's  relentless  wheel 

Deprived  him  of  the  Privy  Seal, 

Bestowed  her  smiles  upon  another, 

And  gave  his  letters  to  her  mother. 

'Tis  the  last  drop,  as  all  men  know, 

That  makes  the  bucket  overflow. 

And  the  last  parcel  of  the  pack 

That  bends  in  two  the  camel's  back. 

Fortune  and  Fame, — he  had  seen  them  depart. 


LEGEND    OF   THE   HAUNTED   TREE.       187 

With  a  silent  pride  of  a  valiant  heart : 
Traitorous  friends — he  had  passed  them  bv, 
With  a  haughty  brow,  and  a  stifled  sigh. 
Boundless  and  black  might  roll  the  sea, 
O'er  which  the  course  of  his  bark  must  be  ; 
But  he  saw,  through  the   storm  that  frowned 

above, 
One  guiding  light,  and  the  light  was  Love. 
Now  all  was  dark;  the  doom  was  spoken! 
His  wealth  all  spent,  and  his  heart  half  broken ; 
Poor  youth !  he  had  no  earthly  hope, 
Except  in  laudanum,  or  a  rope. 

If  e'er  you  happened,  by  a  twist 
Of  Destiny's  provoking  wrist, 
To  find  yourself  one  morning  hurled 
From  all  you  had  in  all  the  world, — 
Seeing  yoiTr  pretty  limes  and  beeches 
Supply  the  auction-mart  with  speeches, — 
By  base  ingratitude  disgusted 
In  him  you  most  esteemed  and  trusted. 
And  cut,  without -the  slightest  reason, 
By  her  who  was  so  kind  last  season, — 
You  know  how  often  meditation 
Assures  you,  for  your  consolation. 
That,  if  you  had  but  been  contented 
To  rent  the  house  your  father  rented, 
If,  in  Sir  Paul  you'd  been  inclined  to 
Suspect  what  no  one  else  was  blind  to, 


I8S   LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE. 

If,  for  that  false  girl,  you  had  choseu 
Eith-er  her  sister  or  her  cousin, 
If  any  thing  you  had  been  doing 
But  just  the  very  thing  you're  ruing, 
You  might  have  hved  your  day  in  clover, 
Gay,  rich,  prized  friend,  and  favored  lover. 
Thus  was  it  with  my  Knight  of  knights  ; 
While  vanished  all  his  vain  delights. 
The  thought  of  being  dupe  and  ass 
Most  galled  the  sick  Sir  Isumbras. 

He  ordered  out  his  horse,  and  tried. 
As  the  Leech  advised,  a  gentle  ride. 

A  pleasant  path  he  took, 
"Where    the    turf,    all    bright   with    the   Ai.vil 

showers, 
"Was  spangled  with  a  thousand  flowers. 

Beside  a  murmuring  brook. 
Never  before  had  he  ridden  that  way  ; 
And  now,  on  a  sunny  first  of  May, 
He  chose  the  turning,  you  may  guess, 
Not  for  the  laughing  loveliness 
Of  turf,  or  flower,  or  stream  ;  but  only 
Because  it  looked  extremely  lonely. 

Yet  but  that  Megrim  hovering  here 
Had  dimmed  tbo  eye  and  dulled  the  cai. 
Jocund  and  joyous  all  around 
Were  every  sight  and  every  sound. 


LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.   189 

The  ancient  forest,  whose  calm  rest 
No  axe  did  ever  yet  molest, 

Stretched  far  upon  the  right ; 
Here,  deepening  into  trackless  shades, 
There,  opening  long  and  verdant  glades. 

Unto  the  cheerful  light: 
Wide  on  the  left,  whene'er  the  screen 
Of  hedgerows  left  a  space  between 

To  stand  and  gaze  awhile. 
O'er  varied  scenes  the  eye  might  rove. 
Orchard  and  garden,  mead  and  grove. 

Spread  out  for  many  a  mile. 
Around,  in  all  the  joy  of  spring. 
The  sinless  birds  were  carolling ; 

Low  hummed  the  studious  bees ; 
And  softly,  sadly,  rose  and  fell 
The  echo  of  the  ocean-swell, 

In  the  capricious  breeze. 
But  truly  Sir  Isumbras  cared  as  much 
For  all  that  a  happier  heart  might  touch. 
As  Oottenham  cares  for  a  Highland  reel, 
When  counsel  opens  a  Scotch  Appeal, 
Or  Hume  for  Pasta's  glox'ious  scenes, 
When  the  House  is  voting  the  Ways  and  Means* 

He  had  wandered,  musing,  scarce  a  mile, 

In  his  melancholy  mood. 
When,  peeping  o'er  a  rustic  stile. 
He  saw  a  little  village  smile, 

Embowered  in  thick  wood. 
Vol.  I.— 13 


190   LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TEEE. 

There  were  small  cottages,  arrayed 
In  tlie  delicate  jasmine's  fragrant  shade  ; 
And  gardens,  whence  the  rose's  bloom 
Loaded  the  gale  with  rich  perfume  ; 
And  there  were  happy  hearts  ;  for  all 
In  that  bright  nook  kept  festival. 
And  welcomed  in  the  merry  May 
"With  banquet  and  with  roundelay. 

Sir  Isumbras  sate  gazing  there, 

"With  folded  arms,  and  mournful  air ; 

He  fancied — 'twas  an  idle  whim — 

That  the  village  looked  like  a  home  to  liim. 

And  now  a  gentle  maiden  came, 
Leaving  her  sisters  and  their  game, 

And  wandered  up  the  vale ; 
Beauty  so  bright  he  had  never  seen. 
Saving  her  Majesty  the  Queen ; — 
But  out  on  ugly  doubts  and  fears  ! 
Her  eyes  were  very  full  of  tears, 

Her  cheeks  were  very  pale. 
None  courted  her  stay  of  the  joyous  throng, 

As  she  passed  from  the  group  alone  ; 
And  he  listened,  which  was  vastly  wrong. 
And  heard  her  singing  a  lively  song, 

In  a  very  dismal  tone : — 

"Deep  is  the  bliss  of  the  belted  knight, 
"Wlien  he  kisses  at  dawn  the  silken  glove. 


LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.   101 

And  goes,  in  Ms  glittering  armour  diglit, 
To  shiver  a  lance  for  his  Ladj-love !" 

That  thrilling  tone,  so  soft  and  clear — 

Was  it  familiar  to  his  ear  ? 

And  those  delicious  drooping  eyes, 

As  blue  and  as  pure  as  the  summer  skies — 

Had  he,  indeed,  in  other  days, 

Been  blessed  in  the  light  of  their  holy  rays  ? 

He  knew  not ;  but  his  knee  he  bent 

Before  her  in  most  knightly  fashion, 
And  grew  superbly  eloquent 

About  her  beauty,  and  his  passion. 
He  said  that  she  was  very  fair. 

And  that  she  warbled  like  a  linnet; 
And  that  he  loved  her,  though  he  ne'er 

Had  looked  upon  her  till  that  minute. 
He  said,  that  all  the  Court  possessed 

Of  gay  or  grave,  of  fat  or  slender, 
Poor  things  !  were  only  fit,  at  best. 

To  hold  a  candle  to  her  splendour. 
He  vowed  that  when  she  once  should  take 

A  little  proper  state  upon  her, 
All  lutes  for  her  deliglit  would  wake, 

All  lances  shiver  in  her  honour : 
He  grieved  to  mention  that  a  Jew 

Had  seized  for  debt  his  grand  pavilion  ; 
And  he  had  little  now,  'twas  true. 

To  offer,  but  a  heart  and  pillion ; 


192   LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE. 

But  what  of  that  ?     In  many  a  fight — 

Though  he,  who  shouldn't  say  it,  said  it — 
He  still  had  borne  him  like  a  knight. 

And  had  his  share  of  blows  and  credit; 
And  if  she  would  but  condescend 

To  meet  him  at  the  Priest's  to-morrow, 
And  be  henceforth  his  guide,  his  friend, 

In  every  toil,  in  every  sorrow, 
They'd  sail  instanter  from  the  Downs ; 

His  hands  just  now  were  quite  at  leisure ; 
And,  if  she  fancied  foreign  crowns. 

He'd  win  them  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 

"A  year  is  gone" — the  damsel  sighed, 

But  blushed  not,  as  she  so  replied^ 

"  Since  one  I  loved — alas !  how  well 

He  knew  not,  knows  not — left  our  dell. 

Time  brings  to  his  deserted  cot 

No  tidings  of  his  after-lot ; 

But  his  weal  or  woe  is  still  the  theme 

Of  my  daily  thought,  and  my  nightly  dream. 

Poor  Alice  is  not  proud  or  coy  ; 

But  her  heart  is  with  her  minstrel-boy." 

Away  from  his  arms  the  damsel  bounded. 
And  left  him  more  and  more  confounded. 
He  mused  of  the  present,  he  mused  of  the  past, 
And  he  felt  that  a  spell  was  o'er  him  cast ; 
He  shed  hot  tears,  he  knew  not  why, 


LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.   193 

And  talked  to  himself,  and  made  reply ; 
Till  a  calm  o'er  his  troubled  senses  crept, 
And,  as  the  daylight  waned,  he  slept. 
Poor  gentleman  ! — I  need  not  say. 
Beneath  an  ancient  oak  he  lay. 

"  He  is  welcome" — o'er  his  bed, 
Thus  the  bounteous  Fairy  said: — 

"  He  has  conned  the  lesson  now  ; 

He  has  read  the  book  of  pain  : 
There  are  furrows  on  his  brow, 

I  must  make  it  smooth  again. 

"  Lo,  I  knock  the  spurs  away ; 

Lo,  I  loosen  belt  and  brand  ; 
Hark !  I  hear  the  courser  neigh 

For  his  stall  in  Fairy-land. 

"Bring  the  cap,  and  bring  the  vest; 

Buckle  on  his  sandal  shoon ; 
Fetch  his  memory  from  the  chest 

In  the  treasury  of  the  moon. 

''  I  have  taught  him  to  he  wise, 

For  a  little  maiden's  sake ; — 
Lo !  he  opens  his  glad  eyes. 

Softly,  slowly :— Minstrel,  wake!" 


194        LEGEND    OF   THE    HAUNTED    TEEE, 

The  sun  has  risen,  and  Wilfrid  is  come 

To  his  early  friends  and  his  cottage  home. 

His  hazel  eyes  and  his  locks  of  gold 

Are  just  as  they  were  in  the  time  of  old : 

But  a  blessing  has  been  on  the  soul  within, 

For  that  is  won  from  its  secret  sin  ; 

More  loviug  now,  and  worthier  love 

Of  men  below  and  of  saints  above. 

He  reins  a  steed  with  a  lordly  air, 

Which  makes  his  country  cousins  stare : 

And  he  speaks  in  a  strange  and  courtly  phrase, 

Though  his  voice  is  the  voice  of  other  days. 

But  where  he  has  learned  to  talk  and  ride, 

He  will  tell  to  none  but  his  bonny  bride. 

(Written  in  1S30  ;  but  revised  by  tbe  author,  and   largely 
added  to,  in  1837.) 


LEGEND  OF  THE  DEACHENFEL8.   195 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DRACHENFELS. 

"  Death  be  her  doom !  we  must  not  spare, 
Though  the  voice  be  sweet,  though  the  face  be 

fair, 
Wheu  the  looks  deride  and  the  lips  blaspheme 
The  Serpent-God  of  our  hallowed  stream. 

"  Death  be  her  doom !  that  the  fearful  King 
May  joy  in  the  gift  his  votaries  bring ; 
And  smile  on  the  valley,  and  smile  on  the  rock, 
To  freshen  the  vine,  and  to  fatten  the  flock. 

''  Death  be  her  doom !  ere  the  pitiless  One 
Leap  from  his  rest  at  set  of  sun  ; 
Seek  from  his  crag  his  wonted  prey. 
And  punish  in  wrath  our  long  delay!" 

It  was  a  gray-haired  Chief  that  said 

The  words  of  ftite,  the  words  of  fear ; 
A  battered  casque  was  on  his  head, 

And  in  his  grasp  a  broken  spear : 
It  was  a  captive  maid  that  met, 

Sedate,  serene,  the  stern  command , 
Around  her  neck  her  beads  were  set 

An  ivory  cross  was  in  her.hand. 


196   LEGEND  OF  THE  DKACHENFELS. 

"Lead  me  away  !  I  am  weak  and  young, 
Captive  the  fierce  and  the  proud  among ; 
But  I  will  pray  an  humble  prayer, 
That  the  feeble  to  strike  may  be  firm  to  bear. 

"  Lead  me  away !  the  voice  may  fail, 

And  the  lips  grow  white,  and  the  cheeks  tun. 

pale; 
Yet  will  ye  know  that  naught  but  sin 
Chafes  or  changes  the  soul  within. 

Lead  me  away !  oh,  dear  to  mine  eyes 
Are  the  flowery  fields,  and  the  sunny  skies; 
But  I  cannot  turn  from  the  Cross  divine 
To  bend  my  knee  at  an  idol's  shrine." 

They  clothe  her  in  such  rich  array 
As  a  bride  prepares  for  her  bridal  day ; 
Around  her  forehead,  that  shines  so  bright, 
They  wreathe  a  wreath  of  roses  white. 
And  set  on  her  neck  a  golden  chain — 
Spoil  of  her  sire  in  combat  slain. 

Over  her  head  her  doom  is  said  ; 

And  with  folded  arms,  and  measured  tread, 

In  long  procession,  dai'k  and  slow. 

Up  the  terrible  hill  they  go, 

Hymning  their  hymn,  and  crying  their  cry 

To  him,  their  Demon  Deity. — 


LEGEND  OF  THE  DEACHENFELS.   197 

Mary,  Mother!  sain  and  save! 

The  maiden  kneels  at  the  Dragon's  cave  ! 

Alas !  'tis  frightful  to  behold 
That  thing  of  Nature's  softest  mould, 
In  whose  slight  shape  and  delicate  hue 
Life's  loveliness  beams  fresh  and  new, 
Bound  on  the  bleak  hill's  topmost  height, 
To  die,  and  by  such  death,  to-night ! 
But  yester-eve,  when  the  red  sun 
His  race  of  grateful  toil  had  run, 
And  over  earth  the  moon's  soft  ravs 
Lit  up  the  hour  of  prayer  and  praise. 
She  bowed  within  the  pleasant  shade 
By  her  own  fragrant  jasmine  made ; 
And  while  her  clear  and  thrilling  tone 
Asked'l)lessing  from  her  Maker's  throne. 
Heard  the  notes  echoed  to  her  ear 
From  lips  that  were  to  her  most  dear. 
Her  sire,  her  kindred,  round  her  knelt ; 
And  the  young  Priestess  knew  and  felt 
That  deeper  love  than  that  of  men 
"Was  in  their  natural  temple  then. 
That  love — is  now  its  radiance  chill? 
Fear  not ;  it  guides,  it  guards  her  still  I 

The  temper  of  our  stoutest  mail 
In  battle's  fiery  shock  may  fail ; 
The  trustiest  anchor  may  betray 


198   LEGEND  OF  THE  DEACHENTELS. 

Our  vessel  in  the  treacherous  spray  ; 

The  dearest  friend  we  ever  knew 

In  our  worst  need  may  prove  untrue : 

But  come  what  may  of  doubt  or  dread 

About  our  lonely  path  or  bed, 

On  tented  field,  or  stormy  wave, 

In  dungeon-cell,  or  mountain-cave. 

In  want,  in  pain,  in  death — where'er 

One  meek  heart  pi'ays,  God's  love  is  there  ! 

The  crowd  departed :  her  wandering  eye 
Followed  their  steps,  as  they  left  her.  to  die. 
Down  the  steep  and  stern  descent, 
Strangely  mingled,  the  Heathen  went — 
Palsied  dotard,  and  beardless  boy, 
Sharers  to-night  in  their  savage  joy — 
Hoary  priest,  and  warrior  grim,  • 

Shaking  the  lance,  and  chanting  the  hymn  ; 
And  ever  and  anxiously  looking  back. 
To  watch  if  yet,  on  his  slimy  track 
He  rolled  him  forth,  that  ghastly  guest, 
To  taste  of  the  banquet  he  loved  the  best. 

The  crowd  departed;  and  alone 
She  kneeled  upon  the  rugged  stone. 
Alas !  it  was  a  dismal  pause, 
"When  the  wild  rabble's  fierce  applause 

Died  slowly  on  the  answering  air ; 
And,  in  the  still  and  mute  profound, 


LEGEND  OF  THE  DKACHENPEL8.   199 

She  started  eveD  at  the  sound 

Of  the  half-thought,  half-spoken  praver 
Her  heart  ai?.d  lip  had  scarcely  power 
To  feel  or  frame  in  that  dark  hour. 
Fearful,  yet  blameless! — for  her  birth 
Had  been  of  Nature's  common  earth, 
And  she  was  nursed,  in  happier  liours. 
By  Nature's  common  suns  and  showers : 
And  when  one  moment  whirls  away 
Whate'er  we  know  or  trust  to-day. 
And  opens  that  eternal  book 
On  which  we  long,  and  dread  to  look, 
In  that  quick  change  of  sphere  and  scope — 

That  rushing  of  the  spirit's  wings. 
From  all  we  have  to  all  we  hope, 

From  mortal  to  immortal  things — 
Though  madly  on  the  giddy  brink 

Despair  may  jest,  and  Guilt  dissemble — 
White  Innocence  awhile  will  shrink. 

And  Piety  be  proud  to  tremble! 

But  quickly  from  her  brow  and  cheek 

The  flush  of  human  terror  faded. 
And  she  aroused,  the  maiden  meek. 

Her  fainting  spirit,  self-upbraided, 
And  felt  liur  secret  soul  renewed 
In  that  her  solemn  solitude. 
Unwonted  strength  to  her  was  given 

To  bear  the  rod  and  drink  tlie  cup  ; 


200   LEGEND  OF  THE  DEACHENFELS. 

Her  pulse  beat  calmer,  and  to  Heaven 

Her  voice  in  firmer  tone  went  up : 
And  as  upon  lier  gentle  heart 

The  dew  of  holy  peace  descended, 
She  saw  her  last  sunlight  depart 

"With  awe  and  hope  so  sweetly  blended 
Into  a  deep  and  tranquil  sense 
Of  unpresuming  confidence, 
That  if  the  blinded  tribes,  whose  breath 
Had  doomed  her  to  such  dole  and  death, 
Could  but  have  caught  one  bright  brief  glance 
Of  that  ungrieving  countenance, 
And  marked  the  light  of  glory  shed 
Already  o'er  her  sinless  head. 

The  tears  with  which  her  eyes  were  full — 
Tears  not  of  anguish — and  the  smile 
Of  new-born  rapture,  which  the  while 
As  with  a  lustrous  veil  arrayed 
Her  brow,  her  cheek,  her  lip,  and  made 

Her  beauty  more  than  beautiful  - 
Oh,  would  they  not  have  longed  to  share 
Her  torture — yea !  her  transport,  there  ? 

"Father,  my  sins  are  very  great ; 

Thou  readest  them,  whate'er  they  be : 
Bat  penitence  is  all  too  late ; 

And  unprepared  I  come  to  Thee, 

Uncleansed,  unblessed,  unshrivcn  I 


LEGEND   OF   THE    DRACnENFl<:LS.       201 

"  Yet  Thou,  in  whose  all-seareliing  sight 

ISTo  human  thing  is  undefiled — 
Thou,  who  art  merciful  in  might, 

Father,  Thou  wilt  forgive  Thy  child- 
Father,  thou  hast  forgiven ! 

"Thy  will,  not  liers,  be  done  to-day  1 

If  in  this  hour,  and  on  this  spot. 
Her  soul  indeed  must  pass  away 

Among  fierce  men  who  know  Thee  not — 

Thine  is  the  breath  Thou  gavest  1 

"  Or  if  Thou  wilt  put  forth  Thine  hand 
And  shield  her  from  the  jaws  of  flame, 

That  she  may  live  to  teach  the  land 

Whose  people  hath  not  heard  Thy  name — 
TJiine  be  the  life  Thou  savest!" 

So  spoke  the  blessed  maid ;  and  now 
Crossing  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 

With  quiet  eye,  and  placid  brov/. 
Awaited  the  destroying  pest ; 

Not  like  a  thing  of  sense  and  life 

Soul-harassed  in  such  bitter  strife, 

But  tranquil,  as  a  shape  of  stone, 

Upraised  in  ages  long  bygone, 

To  mark  where,  closed  her  toilsome  race, 

Some  sainted  sister  sleeps  in  grac^. 


202   LEGEND  OF  THE  DRACHENFELS. 

Such  might  she  seem :  about  her  grew 
Sweet  wild-flowers,  sweet  of  scent  and  hue ; 
And  she  had  placed,  with  pious  care, 
Her  Crucifix  before  her  there, 
That  her  last  look  and  thought  might  be 
Of  Christ,  and  of  the  Koly  Tree. 

And  now,  methinks,  at  what  my  lay 
Of  this  poor  maid  hath  yet  to  say. 
Will  Wit  assume  a  scornful  look. 
And  Wisdom  con  a  grave  rebuke. 
I  heed  them  not ;  full  oft  their  lies 
In  such  time-honoured  histories, 
Hived  through  long  ages  in  the  store 
Of  the  rude  peasant's  nursery  lore, 
A  pathos  of  a  deeper  ruth, 
A  moral  of  a  purer  truth, 
Than  aught  we  study  in  the  page 
Of  lofty  bard  or  learned  sage ; 
Therefore,  my  gentle  Muse,  prolong 
Tn  faith  thy  legendary  song. 

The  day  was  gone,  but  it  was  not  night  :— 
Whither  so  suddenly  fled  the  light  ? 
Nature  seemed  sick  with  a  sore  disease; 
Over  her  hills  and  streams  and  trees 

Unnatural  darkness  fell ; 
The  earth  and  the  heaven,  the  river  and  shore, 
Tn  the  lurid  mist  were  seen  no  more  ; 
And  the  voice  of  the  mountain  monster  rose 


LEGEND  OF  THE  DEACHENPELS.   203 

As  lie  lifted  him  up  from  his  noontide  repose, 
First  in  a  hiss,  and  then  in  a  cry, 
And  then  in  a  yell  that  shook  the  sky; — 
The  eagle  from  high  fell  down  to  die 

At  the  sound  of  that  mighty  yell : — 
From  his  wide  jaws  broke,  as  in  wrath  he  woke, 
Scalding  torrents  of  sulphurous  smoke ; 
And  craclding  coals,  in  mad  ascent, 
As  from  a  red  volcano  went. 

And  flames,  like  the  flames  of  hell ! 
But  his  scream  of  fury  waxed  more  shrill. 
When,  on  the  peak  of  the  blasted  Hill, 

He  saw  his  victim  bound. 
Forth  the  Devourer,  scale  by  scale, 
Hnveiled  the  folds  of  his  steel-proof  mail. 
Stretching  his  throat,  and  stretching  his  tail, 
And  hither  and  thither  rolling  him  o'er, 
Till  he  covered  fourscore  feet  and  four 

Of  the  wearied  and  wailing  ground  : 
And  at  last  he  raised  from  his  stony  bed 
The  horrors  of  his  speclded  head ; 
Up  like  a  comet  the  meteor  went. 
And  seemed  to  shake  the  firmament, 

And  batter  heaven's  own  walls! 
For  many  a  long  mile,  well  I  ween. 
The  fires  that  shot  from  those  eyes  were  seen; 
The  Burschen  of  Bonn,  if  Bonn  had  been. 

Would  have  shuddered  in  their  halls. 
Woe  for  the  Virgin! — bootless  here 
Were  glistening  shield  and  whistlinf  fpenr 


204   LEGEND  OF  THE  DRACHEKFELS. 

Such  battle  to  abide  ; 
The  mightiest  engines  that  ever  the  trad':^ 
Of  human  homicide  hath  made, 
Warwolf,  balist,  and  catapult, 
"Would  like  a  stripling's  wand  insult 

That  adamantine  hide. 
Woe  for  the  Virgin ! — 

Lo!  what  spell 
Hath  scattered  the  darkness,  and  silenced  the  yell 

And  quenched  those  fiery  showers  ? — 
Why  turns  the  serpent  from  his  prey  ? — 
The  Cross  hath  barred  his  terrible  way. 

The  Cross  among  the  flowers. 
As  an  eagle  pierced  on  his  cloudy  throne, 
As  a  column  sent  from  its  base  of  stone, 
Backward  the  stricken  monster  dropped ; 
Never  he  stayed,  and  never  he  stopped, 
Till  deep  in  the  gushing  tide  he  sank, 

And  buried  lay  beneath  the  stream, 

Passing  away  like  a  loathsome  dream. 
Well  may  you  guess  how  either  bank 

As  with  an  earthquake  shook ; 
The  mountains  rocked  from  brow  to  base ; 

The  river  boiled  with  a  hideous  din 

As  the  burning  mass  fell  heavily  in ; 
And  the  wide  wide  Ehine,  for  a  moment's  space. 

Was  scorched  into  a  brook. 

N'ight  passed,  ere  the  multitude  dared  to  crec-i^ 
Huddled  together,  up  the  steep ; 


LEGEND    OF   THE   DRACHENFELS.       20.J 

They  came  to  the  stone ;  in  speecliless  awe 
They  fell  on  their  face  at  the  sight  they  saw : 
The  maiden  was  free  from  hurt  or  harm, 
But  the  iron  had  passed  from  her  neck  and  arm, 
And  the  glittering  links  of  the  broken  chain 
Lay  scattered  about  like  drops  of  rain. 

And  deem  ye  that  the  rescued  child 

To  her  father-land  would  come, — 
That  the  remnant  of  her  kindred  smiled 

Around  her  in  her  home, 
And  that  she  lived  in  love  of  earth, 

Among  earth's  hopes  and  fears, 
And  gave  God  thanks  for  the  daily  birth 

Of  blessings  in  after-years  ? — 
Holy  and  happy,  she  turned  not  away 
From  the  task  her  Saviour  set  that  day ; — 
What  was  her  kindred,  her  home,  to  her  ? 
She  had  been  Heaven's  ovrn  messenger  I 

Short  time  went  by  from  that  dread  hour 
Of  manifested  wrath  and  power. 
Ere  from  the  cliff  a  rising  shrine 
Looked  down  upon  the  rolling  Rhine. 
Duly  the  virgin  Priestess  there 
Led  day  by  day  the  hymn  and  prayer  ; 
And  the  dark  Heathen  round  her  pressed 
To  know  their  Maker,  and  be  blessed. 
Vol.  L— 14 


206  THE   BEIDAL    OF    BELMONT. 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  BELMONT. 

A   LEGEND   OF   THE   RHINE. 

Where  foams  and  flows  the  glorious  Rliiue, 

Many  a  ruin  wan  and  gray 
O'erlooks  the  corn-field  and  the  vine, 

Majestic  in  its  dark  decay. 
Among  their  dim  clouds,  long  ago, 
■  They  inocked  the  battles  that  raged  below, 
And  greeted  the  guests  in  arms  that  came, 
"With  hissing  arrow,  and  scalding  flame : 
But  there  is  not  one  of  the  homes  of  pride 
That  frown  on  the  breast  of  the  peaceful  tide, 
Whose  leafy  walls. more  proudly  tower 
Than  these,  the  walls  of  Belmont  Tower. 

Where  foams  and  flows  the  glorious  IJIiine, 
Many  a  fierce  and  fiery  lord  ' 

Did  carve  the  meat,  and  pour  the  wine. 
For  all  that  revelled  at  his  board. 

Father  and  son,  they  were  all  alike, 

Firm  to  endure,  and  fast  to  strike; 

Little  they  loved  but  a  Frau  or  a  feast, 

Nothing  they  feared  but  a  prayer  or  a  priest ; 

But  there  was  not  one  in  all  the  land 

More  trusty  of  heart,  more  stout  of  hand. 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   BELMONT.  207 

More   valiant   in   field,    or   more   courtcou3  in 

bower, 
Than  Otto,  the  Lord  of  Belmont  Tower. 
His  eyes  were  bright,  Ms  eyes  w'ere  blue, 

As  summer's  sun,  as  summer's  heaven ; 
His  age  was  barely  twenty-tAVO ; 

His  height  was  just  five  feet  eleven: 
His  hounds  were  of  the  purest  strain, 

His  hawks  the  best  from  every  nation ; 
His  courser's  tail,  his  courser's  mane, 

Was  all  the  country's  admiration: 
His  frowns  w^ere  lightnings  charged  with  fate ; 

His  smiles'were  shafts  from  Cupid's  quiver ; 
He  had  a  very  old  estate. 

And  the  best  vineyards  on  the  river. 
So  ancient  dames,  you  need  not  doubt. 

Would  wink  and  nod  their  pride  and  pleasure, 
Whene'er  the  youthful  Count  led  out 

Their  eldest  or  their  youngest  treasure  ; 
Take  notes  of  what  his  Lordship  said 

On  shapes  and  colours,  songs  and  dances. 
And  make  their  maidens  white  or  red, 

According  to  his  Lordship's  fancies. 
They  whispered,  too,  from  time  to  time. 

What  might  escape  the  Count's  inspection. 
That  Linda's  soul  was  all  sublime ; 

That  Gertrude's  taste  was  quite  perfection ; 
Or  blamed  some  people's  forward  tricks, 

And  very  charitably  hinted, 


208  THE   BKIDAL    OF    BELMOirT. 

Their  neighbour's  niece  was  twenty-six, 
Their  cousin's  clever  daughter  squinted. 

Are  you  rich,  single,  and  "your  Grace?" 
I  pity  your  unhappy  case  ; 
Before  you  launch  your  first  new  carriage, 
The  women  have  arranged  your  marriage ; 
Where'er  your  weary  wit  may  lead  you, 
They  pet  you,  praise  you,  fret  you,  feed  you ; 
Consult  your  taste  in  wreaths  and  laces, 
And  make  you  make  their  hooks  at  Eaces ; 
Your  little  pony.  Tarn  O'Shanter, 
Is  found  to  have  the  sweetest  canter ; 
Your  curricle  is  quite  reviving, 
And  Jane's  so  bold  when  you  are  driving! 
One  recollects  your  father's  habits, 
And  knows  the  vrarren,  and  the  rabbits ! 
The  place  is  really  princely — only 
They're  sure  you'll  find  it  vastly  lonely. 
Another,  in  more  tender  phrases. 
Records  your  sainted  mother's  praises; 
Pronounces  her  the  best  of  creatures. 
And  finds  in  you  her  tones  and  features. 

You  go  to  Cheltenham,  for  the  waters, 
And  meet  the  Countess  and  her  daughters; 
You  take  a  cottage  at  Geneva — 
Lo !  Lady  Anne  and  Lady  Eva. 
After  a  struggle  of  a  session. 


THE   BRIDAL    OF   BELMONT.  209 

You  just  surrender  at  discretion, 

And  live  to  curse  the  frauds  of  mothers, 

And  envy  all  your  younger  brothers. 

Count  Otto  bowed,  Count  Otto  smiled, 
When  My  Lady  praised  her  darling  child ; 
Count  Otto  smiled,  Count  Otto  bowed, 
"When  the  child  those  praises  disavowed ; 
But  out  on  the  cold  one !  he  cared  not  a  rush 
For  the  motherly  pride,  or  the  maidenly  blush. 
As  a  knight  should  gaze  Count  Otto  gazed, 
Where  Bertha  in  all  her  beauty  blazed  ; 
As  a  knight  should  hear  Count  Otto  heard, 
Wlien  Liba  sang  like  a  forest  bird ; 
But  he  thought,  I  trow,  about  as  long 
Of  Bertha's  beauty  and  Liba's  song. 
As  the  sun  may  think  of  the  clouds  that  piny 
O'er  his  radiant  path  on  a  summer  day. 

Many  a  maid  had  dreams  of  state, 

As  the  Count  rode  up  to  her  father's  gate ; 

Many  a  maid  shed  tears  of  pain, 

As  the  Count  rode  back  to  his  Tower  again  ; 

But  little  he  cared,  as  it  should  seem. 

For  the  sad,  sad  tear,  or  the  fond,  fond  dream— 

Alone  he  lived — alone,  and  free 

As  the  owl  that  dwells  in  the  hollow  tree ; 

And  belles  and  barons  said  and  swore 

There  never  was  knight  so  shy  before  ! 


210  THE   BRIDAL    OF   BELMOXT. 

It  Tvas  almost  the  first  of  May : 
The  sun  all  smiles  had  passed  awaj ; 

The  moon  was  beautifully  bright ; 
Earth,  heaven,  as  usual  in  such  cases, 
Looked  up  and  down  with  happy  faces ; 

In  short,  it  was  a  charming  night. 
And  all  alone,  at  twelve  o'clock, 
The  young  Count  clambered  down  the  rook, 
Unfurled  the  sail,  unchained  the  oar, 
And  pushed  the  shallop  from  the  shore. 
The  holiness  that  sweet  time  flings 
Upon  all  human  thoughts  and  things, 
"When  SoiTOw  checks  her  idle  sighs. 
And  Care  shuts  fast  her  wearied  eyes ; 
The  splendour  of  the  hues  that  played 
Fantastical  o'er  hill  and  glade. 
As  verdant  slope  and  barren  cliff 
Seemed  darting  by  the  tiny  skiff; 
The  flowers,  whose  faint  tips,  here  and  there, 
Breathed  out  such  fragrance,  you  might  swear 
That  every  soundless  gale  that  fanned 
The  tide  came  fresh  from  Fairy-land  ; 
The  music  of  the  mountain-rill. 
Leaping  in  glee  from  hill  to  hill. 
To  which  some  wild-bird,  now  and  then, 
Made  answer  from  her  darksome  glen — 
All  this  to  him  had  rarer  pleasure 
Than  jester's  wit  or  minstrel's  measure ; 
And,  if  you  ever  loved  romancing. 


THE   BRIDAL    OF   BELMOKT.  2]] 

Or  felt  extremely  tired  of  dancing, 
You'll  hardly  wonder  that  Count  Otto 

Lefti,  for  the  scene  my  muse  is  painting, 
The  Lady  Hildebrand's  ridotto, 

Wliere  all  the  Rhenish  world  was  fainting. 

Wliat  melody  glides  o'er  the  starlit  stream? 

"Lurley!  Lurley!" 
Angels  of  grace !  does  the  young  Count  dream  s 

"Lurley!  Lurley!" 
Or  is  the  scene  indeed  so  fair 
That  a  nymph  of  the  sea  or  a  nymph  of  the  air 
Has  left  the  home  of  her  own  delight, 
To  sing  to  our  roses  and  rocks  to-night  ? 

"Lurley!  Lurley!" 
"Words  there  are  none ;  but  the  waves  prolong 
The  notes  of  that  mysterious  song : 
He  listens,  he  listens,  and  all  around 
Ripple  the  echoes  of  that  sweet  sound — 

"Lurley!  Lurley!" 
No  form  appears  on  the  river-side ; 
No  boat  is  borne  on  the  wandering  tide  ; 
And  the  tones  ring  on,  with  naught  to  show 
Or  whence  they  come  or  whither  they  go — 

"Lm-leyl  Lurley!" 
As  fades  one  murmur  on  the  ear, 
There  comes  another,  just  as  clear; 
And  the  present  is  like  to  the  parted  strain 
As  link  to  link  of  a  golden  chain  : 

"Lurley!  Lurley!" 


212  THE   BRIDAL    OF   BELMONT. 

Whether  the  voice  be  sad  or  gay, 
'T-were  very  hard  for  the  Count  to  say ; 
But  pale  are  his  cheeks  and  pained  his  brow, 
And  the  boat  drifts  on  he  recks  not  how  ; 
His  pulse  is  quick  and  his  heart  is  wild. 
And  he  weeps,  he  weeps,  like  a  little  child. 

O  mighty  Music!  they  who  know 

The  witchery  of  thy  ■wondrous  bow, 

Forget,  when  thy   strange   spells  have  bound 

them. 
The  visible  world  that  lies  around  them. 
When  Lady  Mary  sings  Eossini, 
Or  stares  at  spectral  Paganini, 
To  Lady  Mary  does  it  matter 
Who  laugh,  who  love,  who  frown,  who  flatter? 
Oh,  no ;  she  cannot  heed  or  hear 
Reason  or  rhyme  from  prince  or  peer  : 
In  vain  for  her  Sir  Charles  denounces 
The  horror  of  the  last  new  flounces ; 
In  vain  her  friend  the  Member  raves 
Of  ballot,  bullion,  sugars,  slaves; 
Predicts  the  nation's  future  glories. 
And  chants  the  requiem  of  the  Tories; 
And  if  some  fond  and  foolish  lisper 
Eecites,  in  passion's  softest  whisper, 
The  raptures  which  young  love  imparts 
To  mutual  minds  and  kindred  hearts, — 
Poor  boy,  — she  minds  him  just  as  much 


THE   BRroAL    OF   EKLMO^"T.  213 

As  if  'twere  logic,  or  High  Dutcli. 

As  little  (lid  the  young  Knight  care, — 

While  still  he  listened  to  the  air 

Breathed  by  some  melodist  unseen, 

Much  wondering  what  it  all  might  mean,  - 

For  those  odd  changes  of  the  sky, 

To  dark  from  bright,  to  moist  from  dry, 

Which  furnish  to  the  British  nation 

Three-quarters  of  its  conversation. 

Meantime  a  gust,  a  drop,  a  flash 

Had  warned,  perhaps,  a  youth  less  rash, 

To  shun  a  storm  of  ilercer  fury, 

Than  ever  stunned  the  gods  of  Drury. 

Hid  was  the  bright  heaven's  loveliness 

Beneath  a  sudden  cloud, 
As  a  bride  might  doif  her  bridal  dress 

To  don  her  funeral  shroud  ; 
And  over  flood,  and  over  fell. 

With  a  wild  and  wicked  shout. 
From  the  secret  cell,  where  in  chains  they  dvrell 

The  joyous  winds  rushed  out ; 
And  the  tall  hills  through,  the  thunder  flew, 

And  down  the  fierce  hail  came ; 
And  from  peak  to  peak  the  lightning  threw 

Its  shafts  of  liquid  flame. 
The  boat  Avent  down ;  without  delay. 
The  luckless  boatman  swooned  away ; 
And  when,  aa  a  clear  Spring  morning  rose, 


214  THE   BRIDAL    OF   BELMONT. 

He  woke  iu  wonder  from  repose, 

The  river  was  calm  as  the  river  could  be, 

And  the  thrush  was  awake  on  the  gladsome  tree 

And  there  he  lay,  in  a  sunny  cave, 

On  the  margin  of  the  tranquil  wave, 

Half  deaf  with  that  infernal  din, 

And  wet,  poor  fellow,  to  the  skin. 

He  looked  to  tlie  left  and  he  looked   to   the 

riglit— 
"Why  hastened  he  not,  the  noble  knight. 
To  dry  his  aged  nurse's  tears, 
To  calm  the  hoary  butler's  fears. 
To  listen  to  the  prudent  speeches 
Of  half  a  dozen  loquacious  leeches — 
To  swallow  cordials  circumspectly. 
And  change  his  dripping  cloak  directly  ? 
With  foot  outstretched,  with  hand  upraised, 
In  vast  surprise  he  gazed,  and  gazed ; 
Within  a  deep  and  damp  recess 
A  maiden  lay  in  her  loveliness  ! 
Lived  she  ? — in  sooth  'twere  hard  to  tell. 
Sleep  counterfeited  Death  so  well. 
A  shelf  of  the  rock  was  all  her  bed  ; 
A  ceiling  of  crystal  was  o'er  her  head ; 
Silken  veil  nor  satin  vest 
Shrouded  her  form  in  its  silent  rest ; 
Only  her  long,  long  golden  hair 
About  her  lay  like  a  thin  robe  there. 
Up  to  her  coiich  the  young  knight  crept : 


THE   BRIDAL    OF    BELMONT.  215 

How  very  sound  the  maiden  slept! 

Fearful  and  faint  the  young  knight  sighed  : 

The  echoes  of  the  cave  replied. 

He  leaned  to  look  upon  her  face  ; 

He  clasped  her  hand  in  a  wild  embrace ; 

Never  was  form  of  such  fine  mould — 

But  the  hands  and  the  face  were  as  white  and 
cold 

As  they  of  the  Parian  stone  were  made, 

To  which,  in  great  Minerva's  shade, 

The  Athenian  sculptor's  toilsome  knife 

Gave  all  of  loveliness  but  life. 

On  her  fair  neck  there  seemed  no  stain 

Wliere  the  pure  blood  coursed  through  the  deli- 
cate vein ; 

And  her  breath,  if  breath  indeed  it  were, 

Flowed  in  a  current  so  soft  and  rare, 

it  would  scarcely  have  stirred  the  young  moth's 
wing 

On  the  path  of  his  noonday  wandering — 

Xever  on  earth  a  creature  trod. 

Half  so  lovely,  or  half  so  odd. 

Count  Otto  stares  till  his  eyelids  ache, 
And  wonders  when  she'll  please  to  wake ; 
While  Fancy  whispers  strange  suggestions, 
And  Wonder  prompts  a  score  of  questions. 
Ih  she  a  nymph  of  another  sphere? 
How  came  she  hither?  what  doth  she  here? 


216  THE   BEroAL    OF    BELMONT. 

Or  if  the  morning  of  lier  birth 

Be  registered  on  this  our  earth, 

"Whj^  hath  she  fled  from  her  father's  halls? 

And  where  hath  she  left  her  cloaks  and  sliawlss 

There  was  no  time  for  Reason's  lectures, 

There  was  no  time  for  Wit's  conjectures ; 

He  threw  his  arm  with  timid  haste 

Around  the  maiden's  slender  waist, 

And  raised  her  up,  in  a  modest  way, 

From  the  cold  bare  rock  on  which  she  lav : 

He  was  but  a  mile  from  his  castle-gate. 

And  the  lady  was  scarcely  five  stone  weight ; 

He  stopped  in  less  than  half  an  hour. 

With  his  beauteous  burden,  at  Belmont  Tower. 

Gayly,  I  ween,  was  the  chamber  dressed. 

As  the  Count  gave  order,  for  his  guest ; 

But  scarcely  on  the  couch,  'tis  said, 

That  gentle  guest  was  fairly  laid. 

When  she  opened  at  once  her  great  blue  eyes, 

And,  after  a  glance  of  brief  surprise. 

Ere  she  had  spoken,  and  ere  she  had  heard 

Of  wisdom  or  \vit  a  single  word. 

She  laughed  so  long,  and  laughed  so  loud, 

That  Dame  Ulrica  often  vowed 

A  dirge  is  a  merrier  thing  by  half 

Than  such  a  senseless,  soulless  laugh. 

Around  the  tower  the  elfin  crew 

Seemed  shouting  in  mirthful  concert  too ; 


THE    BEIDAL    OF    BELISIOXT.  217 

And  echoed  i-oof,  and  trembled  rafter, 
With  that  unsentimental  laughter. 

As  soon  as  that  droll  tumult  passed, 

The  maiden's  tongue,  unchained  at  last. 

Asserted  all  its  female  right. 

And  talked  and  talked  with  all  its  might. 

Oii,  how  her  low  and  liquid  voice 

iiade  the  rapt  hearer's  soul  rejoice ! 

'Twas  full  of  those  clear  tones  that  start 

Fi  o:a  innocent  childhood's  happy  heart, 

Ere  i)assion  and  sin  disturb  the  well 

In  which  their  mirth  and  music  dwell. 

J3ut  man  nor  master  could  make  out 

AVhat  the  eloquent  maiden  talked  about; 

The  things  she  uttered  like  did  seem 

To  tlie  babbling  waves  of  a  limpid  stream  ; 

For  the  words  of  her  speech,  if   words  thej 

might  be, 
"Were  the  words  of  a  speech  of  a  far  countrie; 
And  when  she  had  said  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
Count  Otto  understood  no  more 
Than  3^ou  or  I  of  the  slang  that  falls 
From  dukes  and  dupes  at  TattersalFs, 
Of  Hebrew  from  a  bearded  Jew, 
Or  metaphysics  from  a  Blue. 

Couii:  Otto  swore  (Count  Otto's  reading 
Might  well  have  taught  him  better  brooding) 


218  THE   BEIDAI.    OF   BELMONT. 

That  whether  the  maiden  should  fume  or  fret. 

The  maiden  should  not  leave  him  yet ; 

And  so  he  took  prodigious  pains 

To  make  her  happy  in  her  chains : 

From  Paris  came  a  pair  of  cooks, 

From  Gottingen  a  load  of  hooks ; 

From  Venice  stores  of  gorgeous  suits, 

From  Florence  minstrels  and  their  lutes ; 

The  youth  himself  had  special  pride 

In  breaking  horses  for  his  bride ; 

And  his  old  tutor.  Doctor  Hermann, 

"Was  brought  from  Bonn  to  teach  her  German. 

He  who  with  curious  step  hath  strayed 

Alone  through  some  suburban  shade, 

To  rural  Clielsea  sauntering  down, 

Or  wandering  over  Camden  Town, 

The  sacred  mansions  oft  has  seen, 

"Whose  walls  are  white,  whose  gates  are  green. 

Where  ladies  with  respected  names. 

Miss  Black,  Miss  Brown,  Miss  Jenks,  Miss  James, 

For  fifty  pounds  a  year  or  so 

Teach  beauty  all  it  ought  to  know, — 

How  long  have  been  the  reigns  and  lives 

Of  British  monarchs  and  their  wives, — 

How  fast  the  twinkling  planets  run, 

From  age  to  age  about  the  sun, — 

The  depths  of  lakes,  the  heights  of  hills, 

The  rule  of  three,  the  last  quadrilles, 


THE   BRIDAL    OF   BELMONT.  219 

Italian  airs,  Parisian  phrases, 
The  class  and  sex  of  shells  and  daisies, 
The  rules  of  grammar  and  of  grace, 
Eight  sentiments,  and  thorough-bass. 
There  quick  the  young  idea  shoots, 
And  bears  its  blossoms  and  its  fruits. 
The  rosy  nymph,  who  nothing  knows 

But  just  to  scream  a  noisy  ballad, 
To  mend  her  little  brother's  hose. 

To  make  a  cake,  or  mix  a  salad, 
Tormented  for  a  year  or  two 

(So  fast  the  female  wit  advances). 
Shall  grow  superlatively  blue, 

And  print  a  volume  of  romances. 
But  ne'er  did  any  forward  child, 

In  any  such  sequestered  college, 
Ti-ip  faster  than  my  maiden  wild 

Through  every  path  of  useful  knowledge. 

In  May  o'er  grassy  hill  and  vale 

Like  some  young  fawn's  lier  footsteps  bounded ; 
In  May  upon  the  morning  gale 

Like  some  blithe  bird's  her  carols  sounded: 
June  came ; — she  practised  pirouettes 

That  might  have  puzzled  Bigottini, 
And  decked  her  simple  canzonets 

With  shakes  that  would  have  charmed  Eos* 
sini. 
In  spring  to  her  the  A,  B,  C, 


220  THE    BRroAL    OF    BELMONT. 

Appeared  a  mystery  quite  as  murky 
As  galvanism  to  Owhyliee, 

Or  annual  Parliaments  to  Turkey  ; 
But  when  upon  tlie  flood  and  fell 

Brown  autumn's  earliest  storms  werelow'j-ing. 
She  was  quite  competent  to  spell 

Through  all  the  books  of  Doctor  Bowring. 

1^0  cheerful  friend,  no  quiet  guest, 
Doth  Wisdom  come  to  human  breast ; 
She  brings  the  day-beam,  but  in  sooth 
She  brings  its  trouble  with  its  truth. 
With  every  cloud  that  flits  and  flies 
Some  dear  delusion  fades  and  dies  ; 
With  every  flash  of  perfect  light 
Some  loveless  prospect  blasts  the  sight. 
Shut  up  the  page ;  for  in  its  lore 
Are  fears  and  doubts  unfelt  befoi-e : 
Fling  down  the  wreath  ;  for  Sorrow  weaves, 
Amid  the  laurel,  cypress-leaves. 

Moons  waxed  and  waned  ;   and  you  might  traeo 
In  the  captive  maiden  gradual  cliange; 

Ever  and  ever  of  form  and  face  ■ 

Some    charm    seemed    fresh    and   new    and 
strange : 

Over  her  cold  and  colourless  cheek 
The  blush  of  the  rose  began  to  glow, 

And  her  quickened  pulse  began  to  speak 


THE   BRIDAL    OF   BELMONT.  221 

Of  Inunan  bliss  and  human  woe  ; 
Her  features  kept  their  beauty  still, 

But  a  graver  shade  was  o'er  them  thrown  ; 
Her  voice  had  yet  its  clear  soft  thrill, 

But  its  echo  took  a  sadder  tone. 

Oft.  till  the  Count  came  up  from  wine. 

She  sat  alone  by  the  lattice  high, 
Tracing  the  course  of  the  rolling  Rhine 

With  a  moody  brow  and  a  wistful  eye; 
Still,  as  the  menials  oft  averred. 

Talking  and  talking,  low  and  long. 
In  that  droll  language  which  they  heard. 

At  her  first  coming,  from  her  tongue. 
None  but  the  Pope  of  Eome,  they  deemed. 

Could  construe  what  the  damsel  said  ; 
But  this  they  knew,  by  turns  she  seemed 

To  soothe,  to  threaten,  to  upbraid. 
And  oft-  on  a  crag  at  dawn  she  stood, 

Her  golden  harp  in  her  pretty  hand, 
And  sang  such  songs  to  the  gurgling  flood 

As  an  exile  sings  to  his  native  land ; 
Till,  if  a  listener  dared  intrude, 

She  hastened  back  to  the  postern-gate, 
Blushing,  as  if  her  solitude 

Were  as  dear  and  as  wrong  as  a  tclc-d-tete, 

'Tv.'as  wondrous  all ;  but  most  of  all. 
That,  held  in  strict  though  gentle  tlirall, 
Vol.  L— 15 


222  THE   BKIDAL   OF   BELMONT. 

She  seemed  so  slow  to  take  upon  her 
The  style  and  state  of  threatened  honour. 
For  often,  when  on  bended  knee 
Count  Otto  pressed  his  amorous  plea, 
And  begged,  before  his  heart  should  break, 
She'd  be  a  Countess  for  his  sake, 
Without  the  slightest  show  of  flurry. 
She  chid  his  heat,  and  checked  his  hurry : 
He  might  allow  her  time,  she  said, 
To  learn  the  life  his  Lordship  led  ; 
Such  hawking,  hunting,  dining,  drinking, — 
At  times  she  felt  her  poor  heart  sinking ! 
At  home,  in  bed  the  livelong  day, 
She  lived  in  such  a  diiferent  way ; 
So  calm,  so  cool,— her  father's  daughter 
"Was  ne'er  a  minute  in  hot  water. 

Then  their  acquaintance,  she  must  state, 

"Was  of  a  very  recent  date ; 

They  met  in  May,  he  should  remember, 

And  now  were  hardly  in  December; 

Such  eyes  as  hers,  she  had  a  notion, 

"Were  worth  at  least  a  year's  devotion. 

Her  kindred  had  their  fancies  too, 

Of  what  young  ladies  ought  to  do  : 

All  sorts  of  mischief  might  befall, 

If  rashly  in  her  father's  hall 

Before  twelve  months  of  courtship  ended 

She  showed  her  face  with  her  intended. — 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   BELMOXT.  223 

But  -n-here  that  father's  hall  ? — vain,  vain ; 

She  turned  her  eyes  in  silence  down ; 
And  if  yon  dared  to  ask  again, 

Her  only  answer  was  a  frown. 
Some  people  have  a  knack,  we  know, 
Of  saying  things  mal-d-propos^ 
And  making  all  the  world  reflect 
On  what  it  hates  to  recollect. 
They  talk  to  misers  of  their  heir, 
To  women  of  the  days  that  were, 
To  ruined  gamblers  of  the  box, 
To  thin  defaiilters  of  the  stocks, 
To  poets  of  the  wrong  Review, 
And  to  the  Trench  of  "Waterloo. 
The  Count  was  not  of  these :  he  never 
Was  half  so  clumsy,  half  so  clever ; 
And  when  he  found  the  girl  would  rather 
Say  nothing  more  about  her  father, 
He  changed  the  siibject — told  a  fable — 
Believed  that  dinner  was  on  table — 
Or  hinted,  with  an  air  of  sorrow. 
The  certainty  of  rain  to-morrow. 

Meantime  the  world  began  to  prate 

Of  youDg  Count  Otto's  purposed  marriage; 

Discussed  the  jewels  and  the  plate. 
Described  the  dresses  and  the  carriage. 

The  lady's  rank,  the  lady's  name, 
As  usual  in  such  curious  cases. 


224  THE    BKIDAL    OF    BELMO^'T. 

Were  asked  by  many  a  noble  dame, 
With  most  expressive  tones  and  faces ; 

The  grave  and  gay,  the  old  and  young, 
Looked  very  arch,  or  very  serious ; 

Some  whispered  something  that  was  wrong, 
Some  murmured  much  that  was  mysterious. 

One  aunt,  a  strict  old  maiden,  thought, — 

And  could  not  bear  the  thought  to  smother,- 
Toung  persons  positively  ought 

To  have  a  father  and  a  mother  ; 
And  wondered,  with  becoming  scorn. 

How  far  presumption  might  be  carried, 
When  hussies  who  had  ne'er  been  born 

Began  to  think  of  being  married ! 
Another,  fair,  and  kind  as  fair, 

Was  heard  by  many  to  protest 
It  was  her  daily  wish  and  prayer 

That  she  might  see  her  nephew  blest ; 
And  though,  as  matters  stood,  of  course 

'Twas  quite  impossible  to  call 
On  somebody,  whom  she  perforce 

Considered  nobody  at  all. 
When  once  the  Church  had  done  its  part, 

And  ratified  the  Count's  selection. 
She'd  clasp  the  Countess  to  her  heart, 

Impromptu,  with  profound  affection. 

The  winter  storms  went  darkly  by, 
And,  from  a  blue  and  cloudless  sky, 


\ 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   BELMONT.  225 

Again  the  sun  looked  cheerfully 

Upon  the  rolling  Rhine ; 
And  spring  brought  back  to  the  budding  flowers 
Its  genial  light  and  freshening  showers, 
And  music  to  the  shady  bowers, 

And  verdure  to  the  vine. 

And  now  it  is  the  first  of  May; 
For  twenty  miles  round  all  is  gay ; 
Cottage  and  castle  ke«p  holiday ; 

For  how  should  sorrow  lower 
On  brow  of  rustic  or  of  knight, 
When  heaven  itself  looks  all  so  bright, 
Where  Otto's  wedding-feast  is  dight 

In  the  hall  of  Belmont  Tower? 

For  the  maiden's  hair  the  wreath  is  wrought; 

For  the  maiden's  hand  the  ring  is  bought ; 

Be  she  a  Fiend,  or  be  she  a  Fay, 

She  shall  be  Otto's  bride  to-day. 

And  he, — for  he  at  last  discovers 

That  "  no"  is  a  word  unfit  for  lovers, — 

Has  promised,  as  soon  as  the  priest  has  done 

The  terrible  rite  that  makes  them  one. 

To  step  with  her  to  the  carriage-and-four 

That  waits  e'en  now  at  the  castle-door. 

And  post  to  visit — "  although,"  saith  she, 

"A  very  odd  road  our  road  may  be" — 

Her  father,  her  mother,  and  two  or  three  dozens 


220  THE   BKIDAL    OF   BELMONT. 

Of  highly  respectable  aunts  and  cousins : 

And  iie  has  sanctioned  his  consent, 

Lest  he  should  happen  to  repent, 

By  a  score  or  more  of  the  oaths  that  slip, 

As  matters  of  course,  from  a  bridegroom's  lip. 

Stately  matron  and  warrior  tall 
Come  to  the  joyous  festival ; 
Gladly  Otto  welcomes  all, 

As  through  the  gate  they  throng ; 
He  fills  to  the  brim  the  wassail-cup ; 
In  the  bright  wine  pleasure  sparkles  up. 

And  draughts  and  tales  grow  long ; 
But  grizzly  knights  are  still  and  mute. 
And  dames  set  down  the  untasted  fruit, 
When  the  bride  awakes  her  golden  lute, 

And  charms  them  all  with  song: — 

"  The  dawn  is  past,  the  dusk  comes  fast, 

No  longer  may  I  roam  ; 
Full  soon,  full  soon,  the  young  May  moon 

Will  guide  the  truant  home  : 
Hasten  we,  hasten,  groom  and  bride  ; 

How  merry  we  shall  be ! 
Now  open,  father,  open  wide, 

Let  in  my  lord  with  me. 

"  Though  treasures  old  of  silver  and  gold 
Lie  in  thy  secret  store. 


THE    BRIDAL    OF   BELMONT.  227 

I  bring  thee  to-nigbt,  to  charm  thy  sight, 

Gifts  thou  wilt  vaUie  more ; 
Knightly  valour,  and  lordly  pride, 

Leal  heart,  and  spirit  free ; — 
Now  open,  father,  open  wide, 

Let  in  my  lord  with  me. 

"  I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  and  fear, 

The  old  familiar  tone ;     • 
I  hear  him  call  to  his  ancient  hall 

His  favourite,  his  own ; 
How  will  he  chafe  and  how  will  he  chide! 

For  a  tretful  mood  hath  he ; — 
Now  open,  father,  open  wide, 

Let  in  my  lord  with  me !" 

The  nurses  to  the  children  say 

That,  as  the  maiden  sang  that  day. 

The  Rhine  to  the  heights  of  the  beetling  tower 

Sent  up  a  cry  of  fiercer  power, 

And  again  the  maiden's  cheek  was  grown 

As  white  as  ever  Avas  marble  stone. 

And  the  bridesmaid  her  hand  could  hardly  hold, 

Its  fingers  were  so  icy  cold. 

Eose  Count  Otto  from  the  feast, 
As  entered  the  hall  the  hoary  priest. 
A  stalwart  warrior,  well  I  ween. 
That  hoary  priest  in  his  youth  had  been ; 


228  THE    BRIDAL    OF    BELMONT. 

But  the  might  of  his  manhood  he  had  given 

To  penance  and  prayer,  the  Church  and  Heaven. 

For  he  had  travelled  o'er  land  and  wave ; 

He  had  kneeled  on  many  a  martyr's  grave  ; 

He  had  prayed  in  the  meek  St.  Jerome's  cell, 

And  had  tasted  St.  Anthony's  blessed  well. 

And  relics  round  his  neck  had  he, 

Each  Avorth  a  haughty  kingdom's  fee — 

Scrapings  of  bones,  fyid  points  of  spears, 

And  vials  of  authentic  tears — 

From  a  prophet's  coiJin  a  hallowed  nail, 

And  a  precious  shred  of  our  Lady's  veil ; 

And  therefore  at  his  awful  tread. 

The  powers  of  darkness  shrank  with  dread; 

And  Satan  felt  that  no  disguise 

Could  hide  him  from  those  chastened  eyes. 

He  looked  on  the  bridegroom,  he  looked  on  the 

bride, 
The  young  Count  smiled,  but  the  old  priest  sighed, 

"  Fields  with  the  father  I  have  won ; 
I  am  come  in  ray  cowl  to  bless  the  son : 
Count  Otto,  ere  thou  bend  thy  knee, 
What  shall  the  hire  of  my  service  be  ?" 

"  Greedy  hawk  must  gorge  his  prey, 
Pious  ])ricst  must  grasp  his  pay ; 
Name  the  guerdon,  and  so  to  the  task; 
Thine  it  is,  ere  thy  lips  can  ask." 


THE    BRIDAL    OF    BELMONT.  229 

He  frowned  as  he  answered — "Gold  and  gem, 
Ooimt  Otto,  little  I  reck  of  theia ; 
But  join-  bride  has  skill  of  the  lute,  they  say: 
Let  her  sing  me  the  song  I  shall  name  to-day." 

Loud  laiighed  the  Count:   "And  if  she  refuse 
The  ditty,  Sir  Priest,  thy  whim  shall  choose, 
Eow  back  to  the  house  of  old  St.  Goar; 
I  never  bid  priest  to  a  bridal  more." 

Beside  the  maiden  he  took  his  stand, 
He  gave  the  lute  to  her  trembling  hand; 
She  gazed  around  with  a  troubled  eye ; 
The  guests  all  shuddered,  and  knew  not  why  ; 
It  seemed  to  them  as  if  a  gloom 
Had  shrouded  all  the  banquet-room. 
Though  over  its  boards,  and  over  its  beams. 
Sunlight  was  glowing  in  merry  streams. 

The  stern  priest  throws  an  angry  glance 
On  that  pale  creature's  countenance  ; 
Unconsciously  her  white  hand  flings 
Its  soft  touch  o'er  the  answering  strings; 
The  good  man  starts  with  a  sudden  thrill, 
And  half  relents  from  his  purposed  will ; 
But  he  signs  the  cross  on  his  aching  brow, 
And  arms  his  soul  for  its  warfare  now. 
"  Mortal  maid,  or  goblin  fairy, 
Sing  me,  I  pray  thee,  an  Ave-Mary!" 


230  THE   BKIDAL    OF   BELMONT. 

Suddenly  the  maiden  bent 
O'er  the  gorgeous  instrument ; 
But  of  song,  the  listeners  heard 
Only  one  wild,  mournful  word — 

"Lurley!  Lurley!" 
And  when  the  sound,  in  the  liquid  air, 

Of  that  brief  hymn  had  faded, 
Nothing  was  left  of  the  nymph  who  there 

For  a  year  had  masqueraded ; 
But  the  harp  in  the  midst  of  the  wide  hall  set, 

Where  her  last  strange  word  was  spoken ! 
The  golden  frame  Avith  tears  was  wet, 

And  all  the  strings  were  broken ! 

(Written  in  1881;  but  revised  by  the  author,  and  largely 
added  to,  in  1837.  In  the  original  version,  the  sung  of  tha 
bride  stood  thus  : — 

"A  voice  ye  hoar  not,  in  mine  ear  is  crying; — 

What  does  the  sad  voice  say  ? 
'  Dost  thou  not  heed  thy  weary  father's  sighing  ? 
Eeturn,  return  to-day  1 
Twelve  moons  have  faded  now : 
My  daughter,  where  art  thou  ?' 

"  Peace  I  in  the  silent  evening  we  will  meet  thee. 

Gray  ruler  of  the  tide  I 
Must  not  the  lover  with  the  loved  one  greet  theef 
The  bridegroom  with  his  bride  ? 
Deck  the  dim  couch  aright, 
The  bridal  couch,  to-night.") 


LEGEND   OF  THE   TEUFEL-HATJS.       231 


THE  LEGEXD  OF  THE  TEUFEL-HAUS. 

The  way  was  lone,  and  the  hoar  was  late, 

And  Sir  Eudolpli  was  far  from  his  castle-gate. 

Tlie  night  came  down,  by  slow  degrees, 

On  the  river-stream,  and  the  forest-trees ; 

And  by  the  heat  of  the  heavy  air. 

And  by  the  lightning's  distant  glare, 

And  by  the  rustling  of  the  woods. 

And  by  the  roaring  of  the  floods, 

In  half  an  hour,  a  man  might  say, 

The  Spirit  of  Storm  would  ride  that  way. 

But  little  he  cared,  that  stripling  pale, 

For  the  sinking  sun,  or  the  rising  gale ; 

For  he,  as  he  rode,  was  dreaming  now, 

Poor  youth,  of  a  woman's  broken  vow, 

Of  the  cup  dashed  down,   ere   the  wine  was 

tasted. 
Of  eloquent  speeches  sadly  wasted, 
Of  a  gallant  heai't  all  burnt  to  ashes. 
And  the  Baron  of  Katzberg's  long  mustaches. 
So  the  earth  below,  and  the  heaven  above, 
He  saw  them  not; — those  dreams  of  love. 
As  some  have  found,  and  some  will  find, 
Make  men  extremely  deaf  and  blind. 


232       LEGEND    OF   THE   TEUFEL-HAU3. 

At  last  lie  opened  Ms  great  blue  eyes, 
And  looking  about  in  vast  surprise, 
Found  that  his  hunter  had  turned  his  back 
An  hour  ago  on  the  beaten  track, 
And  now  was  threading  a  forest  hoar, 
Where  steed  had  never  stepped  before. 

"By  Caesar's  head,"  Sir  Rudolph  said, 

"  It  were  a  sorry  joke, 
If  I  to-night  should  make  my  bed 

On  the  turf,  beneath  an  oak  ! 
Poor  Roland  reeks  from  head  to  hoof ; — 

Now,  for  thy  sake,  good  roan, 
I  would  we  were  beneath  a  roof, 

"Were  it  the  foul  fiend's  own  !" 

Ere  the  tongue  could  rest,  ere  tlie  lips  could 

close. 
The  sound  of  a  listener's  laughter  rose. 
It  was  not  the  scream  of  a  merry  boy 
When  Harlequin  waves  his  wand  of  joy; 
Nor  the  shout  from  a  serious  curate,  won 
By  a  bending  bishop's  annual  pun ; 
Nor  the  roar  of  a  Yorkshire  clown; — oh,  no! 
It  was  a  gentle  laugh,  and  low ; 
Half  uttered,  perhaps,  and  stifled  half, 
A  good  old-gentlemanly  laugh  ; 
Such  as  ray  Uncle  Peter's  are, 
When  he  tells  vou  his  tales  of  Dr.  Parr. 


LEGEND  OF  THE  TEUFEL-HAUS.   233 

The  rider  looked  to  the  left  and  the  right, 

"With  something  of  marvel,  and  more  of  fright : 

But  brigliter  gleamed  his  anxious  eje. 

When  a  light  shone  out  from  a  hill  hard  by. 

Thither  he  spurred,  as  gay  and  glad 

As  Mrs.  Macquill's  delighted  lad, 

AYhen   he  turns  away  from  the  Pleas  of  tlie 

Crown, 
Or  flings,  with  a  yawn,  old  Saunders  down, 
And  flies,  at  last,  from  all  the  mysteries 
Of  Plaintift's'  and  Defendants'  histories. 
To  make  himself  sublimely  neat, 
For  Mrs.  Camac's  in  Mansfield  Street. 

At  a  lofty  gate  Sir  Kudolph  halted  ; 
Down  from  his  seat  Sir  Rudolph  vaulted  : 
And  he  blew  a  blast  with  might  and  main. 
On  the  bugle  that  hung  by  an  iron  chain. 
The  sound  called  up  a  score  of  sounds ; — 
The  screeching   of   owls,   and  the   baying   of 

hounds. 
The  hollow  toll  of  the  turret-bell. 
The  call  of  the  watchful  sentinel. 
And  a  groan  at  last,  like  a  peal  of  thunder, 
As  the  huge  old  portals  rolled  asunder. 
And  gravely  from  the  castle-hall 
Paced  forth  the  white-robed  seneschal. 
He  stayed  not  to  ask  of  what  degree 
So  fair  and  famished  a  knight  might  be ; 


234      LEGEiro   OF   THE   TETTFEL-HAUS. 

But  knowing  that  all  untimely  question 
Euffles  the  temper,  and  mars  the  digestion, 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  crupper, 
And  said, — ''You're  just  in  time  for  supper!" 

They  led  him  to  the  smoking  board, 

And  placed  him  next  to  the  castle's  Lord. 

He  looked  around  with  a  hurried  glance : 

Tou  may  ride  from  the  border  to  fair  Penzance, 

And  nowhere,  but  at  Epsom  Eaces, 

Find  such  a  group  of  ruffian  faces 

As  thronged  that  chamber :  some  were  talking 

Of  feats  of  hunting  and  of  hawking, 

And  some  were  drunk,  and  some  were  dreaming, 

And  some  found  pleasure  in  blaspheming. 

He  thought,  as  he  gazed  on  the  fearful  crew. 

That  the  lamps  that  burned  on  the  walls  burned 

blue. 
They  brought  him  a  pasty  of  mighty  size. 
To  cheer  his  heart,  and  to  charm  his  eyes ; 
They  brought  the  wine,  so  rich  and  old, 
And  filled  to  the  brim  the  cup  of  gold ; 
The  Knight  looked  down,  and  the  Knight  looked 

up, 
But  he  carved  not  the  meat,  and  he  drained  not 

the  cup. 

"Ho,  ho  !"  said  his  host,  with  angry  brow, 
"  I  wot  our  guest  is  fine  ; 


I 


\ 


LEGEND   OF  THE   TEUFEL-HAUS.       285 

Our  fare  is  far  too  coarse,  I  trow, 

For  such  nice  taste  as  tliine : 
Yfit  trust  me  I  have  cooked  the  food. 

And  I  have  filled  the  can, 
Since  I  have  lived  in  this  old  wood. 

For  many  a  nobler  man." — 
*'  The  savoury  buck  and  the  ancient  cask 

To  a  weary  man  are  sweet ; 
But  ere  he  taste,  it  is  fit  he  ask 

For  a  blessing  on  bowl  and  meat. 
Let  me  but  pray  for  a  minute's  space, 

And  bid  me  pledge  ye  then ; 
I  swear  to  ye,  by  our  Lady's  grace, 

I  shall  eat  and  drink  like  ten  1" 

The  Lord  of  the  castle  in  wrath  arose. 

He  frowned  lilv.e  a  fiery  dragon  ; 
Indignantly  he  blew  his  nose, 

And  overturned  a  flagon. 
And  "Away,"  quoth  he,    "with   the   canting 

priest. 
Who  comes  uncalled  to  a  midnight  feast, 
And  breathes  througli  a  helmet  his  holy  benison, 
To  sour  my  hock,  and  spoil  my  venison!" 

That  moment  all  the  lights  went  out ; 
And  they  dragged  him  forth,  that  rabble  rout. 
With  oath,  and  threat,  and  foul  scurrility, 
And  every  sort  of  incivility. 


236      LEGEND   OF   THE   TEUFEL-HAUS. 

They  barred  tlie  gates ;  and  the  peal  of  laughter. 

Sudden  and  shrill,  that  followed  after, 

Died  off  into  a  dismal  tone, 

Like  a  parting  spirit's  painful  moan. 

"  I  wish,"  said  Eudolpli,  as  he  stood 

On  foot  in  the  deep  and  silent  wood — 

"  I  wish,  good  Eoland,  rack  and  stable 

May  be  kinder  to-night  than  their  master's  table ! " 

By  this  the  storm  had  fleeted  by  ; 

And  the  moon  with  a  quiet  smile  looked  out 
From  the  glowing  arch  of  a  cloudless  sky, 

Flinging  her  silvery  beams  about 
On  rock,  tree,  wave,  and  gladdening  all 

With  just  as  miscellaneous  bounty, 
As  Isabel's,  whose  sweet  smiles  fall 

In  half  an  hour  on  half  the  county. 
Less  wild  Sir  Rudolph's  pathway  seemed, 

As  he  turned  from  that  discourteous  tower; 
Small  spots  of  verdure  gayly  gleamed 

On  either  side ;  and  many  a  flower, 
Lily,  and  violet,  and  heart's-ease, 

Grew  by  the  way,  a  fragrant  border ; 
And  the  tangled  boughs  of  the  hoary  trees 

Were  twined  in  picturesque  disorder : 
And  there  came  from  the  grove,  and  there  came 
from  the  hiU 

The  loveliest  sounds  he  had  ever  heard, 
The  cheerful  voice  of  the  dancing  rill, 

And  the  sad,  sad  song  of  tlie  lonelv  bird. 


LEGEND    OF   THE   TF.UFEL-HAU8.       237 

And  at  last  he  stared  with  wondering  eyes, 

As  well  he  might,  on  a  huge  pavilion : 
'Twas  clothed  with  stuffs  of  a  hundred  dyes, 

Blue,  purple,  orange,  pink,  vermilion ; 
And  there  were  quaint  devices  traced 

All  round  in  the  Saracenic  manner  ; 
And   the   top,    which    gleamed   like   gui'l,    wa^ 
graced 

"With  the  drooping  folds  of  a  silken,ban:ier ; 
And  on  the  poles,  in  silent  pride, 

There  sat  small  doves  of  white  enauid  ; 
And  the  veil  from  the  entrance  was  drawn  aside, 

And  flung  on  the  humps  of  a  silver  camel. 
In  short,  it  was  the  sweetest  thing 

For  a  weary  youth  in  a  wood  to  light  on  ; 
And  finer  far  than  what  a  King 

Built  up,  to  prove  his  taste,  at  Brighton. 

The  gilded  gate  was  all  unbarred ; 
And,  close  beside  it,  for  a  guard, 
There  lay  two  dwarfs  with  monstrous  nuses, 
Both  fast  asleep  upon  some  roses. 
Sir  Rudolph  entered ;  rich  and  bright 
Was  all  that  met  his  ravished  sight; 
Soft  tapestries  from  fur  countries  brouglit, 
Rare  cabinets  with  gems  inwrought, 
White  vases  of  the  finest  mould. 
And  mirrors  set  in  burnished  gold. 
Upon  a  couch  a  greyhound  slumbered ; 
Vol.  I.— 16 


238      LEGEND   OF   THE   TEUFEL-HAUS. 

And  a  small  table  was  encumbered 
"With  paintings,  and  an  ivory  lute, 
And  sweetmeats,  and  delicious  fruit. 
Sir  Rudolph  lost  no  time  in  praising  ; 
For  he,  I  should  have  said,  was  gazing, 
In  attitude  exti-emely  tragic. 
Upon  a  sight  of  stranger  magic ; 
A  sight,  which,  seen  at  such  a  season. 
Might  well  astonish  Mistress  Reason, 
And  scare  Dame  Wisdom  from  her  fences 
Of  rules  and  maxims,  moods  and  tenses. 

Beneath  a  crimson  canopy, 

A  lady,  passing  fair,  was  lying ; 
Deep  sleep  was  on  her  gentle  eye. 

And  in  her  slumber  she  was  sighing 
Bewitching  sighs,  such  sighs  as  say 

Beneath  the  moonlight,  to  a  lover, 
Things  which  the  coward  tongue  by  day 

Would  not,  for  all  the  world,  discover : 
She  lay  like  a  shape  of  sculptured  stone. 
So  pale,  so  tranquil : — she  had  thrown. 

For  the  warm  evening's  sultriness, 
The  broidered  coverlet  aside ; 
And  nothing  was  there  to  deck  or  hide 

The  glory  of  her  loveliness. 
But  a  scarf  of  gauze  so  light  and  thin 
You  might  see  beneath  the  dazzling  skin. 


LEGEND    OF   THE   TEUFEL-HAUS.       239 

And  watch  the  purple  streamlets  go 

Through  the  valleys  of  white  and  stainless  snow, 

Or  here  and  there  a  wayward  tress, 
"Which  wandered  out  with  vast  assurance 
From  the  pearls  that  kept  the  rest  in  durance, 
And  fluttered  about,  as  if  'twould  try 
To  lure  a  zephyr  from  the  sky. 

"Bertha!" — large  drops  of  anguish  came 

On  Rudolph's  brow,  as  he  breathed  that  name, — • 

"  0  fair  and  false  one,  wake,  and  fear  I 

I,  the  betrayed,  the  scorned,  am  here." 

The  eye  moved  not  from  its  dull  eclipse, 

The  voice  came  not  from  the  fast-shut  lips : 

No  matter !  well  that  gazer  knew 

The  tone  of  bliss,  and  the  eyes  of  blue. 

Sir  Rudolph  hid  his  burning  face 
With  both  his  hands,  for  a  minute's  space, 
And  all  his  frame,  in  awful  fashion, 
Was  shaken  by  some  sudden  passion. 
AVhat  guilty  fancies  o'er  him  rau  ? — 

Oh !  Pity  will  be  slow  to  guess  them ; 
And  never,  save  to  the  holy  man. 

Did  good  Sir  Rudolph  e'er  confess  them. 
But  soon  his  spirit  you  might  deem 
Came  forth  from  the  shade  of  the  fearful  dream ; 
His  cheek,  though  pale,  was  calm  again. 
And  he  spoke  in  peace,  though  he  spoke  in  pain : 


240       LEGEND    OF    THE    TEUEEL-HAU8. 

"  Xot  mine  !  not  mine !  now  Mary,  mother, 
Aid  me  the  sinful  hope  to  smother ! 
Not  mine,  not  mine ! — I  have  loved  thee  long  ; 
Thou  hast  quitted  me  with  grief  and  wrong ; 
But  pure  the  heart  of  a  knight  should  be, — 
Sleep  on,  sleep  on !  thou  art  safe  for  me. 
Yet  shalt  thou  know  bv  a  certain  sign 
Whose  lips  have  been  so  near  to  thine ; 
Whose  eyes  have  looked  upon  thy  sleep, 
And  turned  away,  and  longed  to  weep  ; 
Whose  heart, — mourn — madden  as  it  will, — 
Has  spared  thee,  and  adored  thee  still!" 

His  purple  mantle,  rich  and  wide, 
From  his  neck  the  trembling  youth  untied, 
And  flung  it  o'er  those  dangerous  charms, 
The  swelling  neck,  and  the  rounded  arms. 
Once  more  he  looked,  once  more  he  sighed  ; 
And  away,  away  from  the  perilous  tent. 
Swift  as  the  rush  of  an  eagle's  wing 
Or  the  flight  of  a  shaft  from  Tartar  string. 
Into  the  wood  Sir  Rudolph  v/ent : 
Not  Avith  more  joy  the  schoolboys  run 
To  the  gay  green  fields,  when  their  task  is  done  ;— 
Fot  with  more  haste  the  members  fly. 
When  Hume  has  caught  the  Speaker's  eye. 

At  last  the  daylight  came ;  and  then 
A  score  or  two  of  servino:-men. 


LEGEND   OF   TUE    TEUFEL-HAUS.       2il 

Supposing  that  some  sad  disaster 

Had  happened  to  then-  lord  and  master, 

"Went  out  into  the  -wood,  and  found  him 

Unhorsed,  and  with  no  mantle  round  hira. 

Ere  he  could  tell  his  tale  romantic, 

The  leech  pronounced  him  clearly  frantic, 

So  ordered  him  at  once  to  bed. 

And  clapped  a  blister  on  his  head. 

Within  the  sound  of  the  castle-clock 

There  stands  a  huge  and  rugged  rock ; 

And  I  have  heard  the  peasants  say, 

That  the  grieving  groom  at  noon  that  day 

Found  gallant  Eoland,  cold  and  stiff, 

At  the  base  of  the  black  and  beetling  cliff. 

Beside  the  rock  there  is  an  oak, 
Tall,  blasted  by  the  thunder-stroke ; 
And  I  have  heard  the  peasants  say, 
That  there  Sir  Rudolph's  mantle  lay, 
And  coiled  in  many  a  deadly  wreath 
A  venomous  serpent  slept  beneath, 

(1S30.) 


242  THE   KED   FISHEEMAN. 


THE  RED  FISHERMAN, 

OK 

THE   devil's   decoy. 
"Oh  flesh,  flesh,  how  art  thou  flshified!" 

EOMEO    AND  JULIKT 

The  Abbot  arose,  and  closed  his  book, 

And  donned  liis  sandal  slioou. 
And  wandered  forth,  alone,  to  look 

Upon  the  summer  moon : 
A  starlight  sky  was  o'er  his  head, 

A  quiet  breeze  around ; 
And  the  flowers  a  thrilling  fragrance  shed, 

And  the  waves  a  soothing  sound : 
It  was  not  an  houi*,  nor  a  scene,  for  aught 

But  love  and  calm  delight ; 
Yet  the  holy  man  had  a  cloud  of  thought 

On  his  wrinkled  brow  that  night. 
He  gazed  on  the  river  that  gurgled  by, 

But  he  thought  not  of  the  reeds ; 
He  clasped  his  gilded  rosary. 

But  he  did  not  tell  the  beads ; 
If  he  looked  to  the  heaven,  'twas  not  to  invoke 

The  Spirit  that  dwelleth  there  ; 
If  he  opened  his  lips,  the  words  they  si)oke 

Had  never  the  tone  of  prayer. 


THE   KED   FISHEKMAK.  243 

A  pious  priest  inigLt  the  Abbot  seem, 

He  had  swayed  the  crozier  well ; 
But  -what  was  the  theme  of  the  Abbot's  dream, 

The  xVbbot  vrere  loath  to  tell. 

Oompanionless,  for  a  mile  or  more 

He  traced  tlie  windings  of  the  shore. 

Oh,  beauteous  is  that  river  still, 

As  it  winds  by  many  a  sloping  hill. 

And  many  a  dim  o'erarchiug  grove, 

And  many  a  flat  and  sunny  cove. 

And  terraced  lawns,  whose  bright  arcades 

The  honeysuckle  sweetly  shades, 

And  rocks,  whose  very  crags  seem  bowers, 

So  gay  they  are  with  grass  and  flowers  I 

But  the  Abbot  was  thinking  of  scenery 

Aboi;t  as  much,  in  sooth. 
As  a  lover  thinks  of  constancy, 

Or  an  advocate  of  truth. 
He  did  not  mark  how  the  skies  in  wrath 

Grew  dark  above  his  head ; 
He  did  not  mark  how  the  mossy  path 

Grew  damp  beneath  his  tread ; 
And  nearer  he  came,  and  still  more  near. 

To  a  pool,  in  whose  recess 
The  water  had  slept  for  many  a  year, 

Unchanged  and  motionless ; 
from  the  river-stream  it  spread  away 

The  space  of  a  half  a  rood  ; 


244:  THE    KED   FISHERMAN. 

The  surface  had  the  hue  of  clay 

And  the  scent  of  human  blood ; 
The  trees  and  the  herbs  that  round  it  grow 

Were  venomous  and  foul, 
And  the  birds  that  through  the  bushes  flew 

Were  the  vulture  and  the  owl ; 
The  water  was  as  dark  and  rank 

As  ever  a  Company  pumped, 
And  the  perch,  that  was  netted  and  laid  on  the 
bank. 

Grew  rotten  while  it  jumped ; 
And  bold  was  he  who  thither  came 

At  midnight,  man  or  boy, 
For  the  place  was  cursed  with  an  evil  name, 

And  that  name  was  "The  Devil's  Decoy  !" 

The  Abbot  was  weary  as  abbot  could  be. 
And  he  sat  down  to  rest  on  the  stump  of  a  tree : 
When  suddenly  rose  a  dismal  tone, — 
Was  it  a  song,  or  was  it  a  moan  ? — 

"  O  ho !  0  ho  ! 

Above, — below, — 
Lightly  and  brightly  they  glide  and  go ! 
The  hungry  and  keen  on  the  top  are  leaping. 
The  lazy  and  fat  in  the  depths  are  sleeping; 
Fishing  is  fine  when  the  pool  is  muddy, 
Broiling  is  rich  when  the  coals  are  ruddy!"— 
In  a  monstrous  fright,  by  the  murky  light, 
He  looked  to  the  left  and  he  looked  to  the  right. 


THE   EED   FISHEKMAN.  245 

And  what  was  the  vision  close  before  him, 
That  flung  such  n  sudden  stupor  o'er  him? 
'Twas  a  sight  to  make  the  hair  uprise, 

And  the  life-blood  colder  run : 
The  startled  Priest  struck  both  his  thighs, 

And  the  abbey-clock  struck  one ! 

All  alone,  by  the  side  of  the  pool, 

A  tall  man  sat  on  a  three-legged  stool, 

Kicking  his  heels  on  the  deAvy  sod, 

And  putting  in  order  his  reel  and  rod  ; 

Eed  were  the  rags  his  shoulders  wore, 

And  a  high  red  cap  on  his  head  he  bore ; 

His  arms  and  his  legs  were  long  and  bare ; 

And  two  or  three  locks  of  long  red  hair 

Were  tossing  about  his  scraggy  neck, 

Like  a  tattered  flag  o'er  a  splitting  wreck. 

It  might  be  time,  or  it  might  be  trouble, 

Had  bent  that  stout  back  nearly  double, 

Snnk  in  their  deep  and  hollow  sockets 

That  blazing  couple  of  Congreve  rockets. 

And  shrunk  and  shrivelled  that  tawny  skin. 

Till  it  hardly  covered  the  bones  within. 

The  line  the  Abbot  saw  him  throw 

Had  been  fashioned  and  formed  long  ages  ago 

And  the  hands  that  worked  his  foreign  vest 

Long  ages  ago  had  gone  to  their  rest : 

You  would  have  sworn,  as  you  looked  on  them, 

He  had  fished  in  the  flood  witb  Ham  and  Shem  1 


246  THE   EED   FISHEEMAN. 

There  was  turning  of  keys,   and  creaking  of 

locks, 
As  ho  took  forfh  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 
Minnow  or  gentle,  worm  or  fly, — 
It  seemed  not  such  to  the  Abbot's  eye ; 
Gayly  it  glittered  with  jewel  and  gem, 
And  its  shape  was  the  shape  of  a  diadem. 
It  was  fastened  a  gleaming  hook  about 
By  a  chain  within  and  a  chain  without ; 
The  Fisherman  gave  it  a  kick  and  a  s])in. 
And  the  water  fizzed  as  it  tumbled  in  ! 

From  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
Strange  and  varied  sounds  had  birth: 
Now  the  battle's  bursting  peal, 
Neigh  of  steed,  and  clang  of  steel ; 
Now  an  old  man's  hollow  groan 
Echoed  from  the  dungeon-stone ; 
Now  the  weak  and  wailing  cry 
Of  a  stripling's  agony ! — 
Cold  by  this  was  the  midnight  air ; 

But  the  Abbot's  blood  ran  colder. 
When  he  saw  a  gasping  Knight  lie  there, 
With  a  gash  beneath  his  clotted  hair, 

And  a  hump  upon  his  shoulder. 
And  the  loyal  churchman  strove  in  vaia 

To  mutter  a  Pater  Noster ; 
For  he  who  writhed  in  mortal  pain 


I 


THE   KED   FISHERMAN-.  2^7 

"W.as  camped  that  night  on  Bosworth  plain — 
The  cruel  Duke  of  Gloster ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,   and   creaking  of 

locks, 
As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 
It  was  a  haunch  of  princely  size. 
Filling  with  fragrance  earth  and  skies. 
The  corpulent  Abbot  knew  full  well 
The  swelling  form,  and  the  steaming  smell; 
Never  a  monk  that  wore  a  hood 
Could  better  have  guessed  the  very  wood 
Where  the  noble  hart  had  stood  at  bay, 
Weary  and  wounded,  at  close  of  day. 

Sounded  then  the  noisy  glee 
Of  a  revelling  company, — 
Sprightly  story,  wicked  jest, 
Eated  servant,  greeted  guest, 
Flow  of  wine,  and  flight  of  cork. 
Stroke  of  knife,  and  thrust  of  fork : 
But,  where'er  the  board  was  spread, 
Grace,  I  ween,  was  never  said ! — 
Pulling  and  tugging  the  Fisherman  sat ; 

And  the  Priest  was  ready  to  vomit. 
When  he  hauled  out  a  gentleman,  fine  and  fat, 
With  a  belly  as  big  as  a  brimming  vat. 

And  a  nose  as  red  as  a  comet. 
"A  capital  stew,"  the  Fisherman  said, 

"With  cinnamon  and  sherrv!" 


248  THE   EED   FISHEKMAlir. 

And  the  Abbot  turned  away  bis  bead, 
For  bis  brotber  was  lying  before  bim  dead, 
Tbe  Mayor  of  St.  Edmund's  Bury ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of 

locks. 
As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 
It  was  a  bundle  of  beautiful  things, — 
A  peacock's  tail,  and  a  butterfly's  wings, 
A  scarlet  slipper,  an  auburn  curl, 
A  mantle  of  silk,  and  a  bracelet  of  pearl, 
And  a  packet  of  letters,  from  whose  sweet  fold 
Such  a  stream  of  delicate  odours  rolled, 
That  the  Abbot  fell  on  his  face,  and  fainted, 
And  deemed  his  spirit  was  half-way  sainted. 

Sounds  seemed  dropping  from  the  skies, 
Stifled  whispers,  smothered  sighs. 
And  the  breath  of  vernal  gales, 
And  the  voice  of  nightingales : 
But  the  nightingales  were  mute, 
Envious,  when  an  unseen  lute 
Shaped  the  music  of  its  chords 
Into  passion's  thrilling  words : 
"  Smile,  Lady,  smile ! — I  will  not  set 
Upon  my  brow  the  coronet. 
Till  thou  wilt  gather  roses  white 
To  wear  around  its  gems  of  light. 
Smils,  Lady,  smile ! — I  will  not  see 


THE   KED   FISHERMAN.  249 

Rivers  and  Hastings  bend  the  knee, 
Till  those  bewitching  lips  of  thine 
'^\'ill  bid  me  rise  in  bliss  from  mine. 
Smile,  Lady,  smile  I — for  who  would  win 
A  loveless  throne  through  guilt  and  sin  ? 
Or  who  would  reign  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
If  woman's  heart  were  rebel  still?" 

One  jerk,  and  there  a  lady  lay, 

A  lady  wondrous  fair ; 
But  the  rose  of  her  lip  had  faded  away. 
And  her  cheek  was  as  white  and  as  cold  as  clay, 

And  torn  was  her  raven  hair. 
*'  Ah  ha !"  said  the  Fisher,  in  merry  guise, 

"  Her  gallant  was  hooked  before ;" 
And  the  Abbot  heaved  some  piteous  sighs, 
For  oft  he  had  blessed  those  deep- blue  eyes, 

The  eyes  of  Mistress  Shore  ! 

There  was  turning   of  keys,  and  creaking   of 

locks, 
As  he  took  forth  a  bait  fi-om  his  iron  bos. 
Many  the  cunning  sportsman  tried, 
Many  he  flung  with  a  frown  aside ; 
A  minstrel's  harp,  and  a  miser's  chest, 
A  hermit's  cowl,  and  a  baron's  crest, 
Jewels  of  lustre,  robes  of  price. 
Tomes  of  heresy,  loaded  dice, 
And  golden  cups  of  the  brightest  wino 


250  THE   KED   FISHERMAN. 

That  ever  was  pressed  from  the  Burgundy  vuie. 
Tliere  was  a  perfume  of  sulphur  and  nitre, 
As  he  came  at  last  to  a  bishop's  mitre ! 

From  top  to  toe  the  Abbot  shook, 

As  the  Fisherman  armed  his  golden  hook. 

And  awfully  were  his  features  wrought 

]]y  some  dark  dream  or  wakened  thought. 

Look  how  the  fearful  felon  gazes 

On  the  scaffold  his  country's  vengeance  raises, 

When  the  lips  are  cracked  and  the  jaws  are  dry 

With  the  thirst  which  only  in  death  shall  die  : 

Mark  the  mariner's  frenzied  frown 

As  the  swaling  wherry  settles  down, 

When  p-eril  has  numbed  the  sense  and  will. 

Though  the  hand  and  the  foot  may  struggle  still : 

Wilder  far  was  the  Abbot's  glance. 

Deeper  far  was  the  Abbot's  trance  : 

Fixed  as  a  monument,  still  as  air, 

He  bent  no  knee,  and  he  breathed  no  prayer ; 

But  he  signed — he  knew  not  why  or  how, — 

The  sign  of  the  Cross  on  his  clammy  brow. 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and   creaking  of 

locks, 
As  he  stalked  away  with  his  iron  box. 

"Oho!  Oho! 

The  cock  doth  crow; 
It  is  time  for  the  Fisher  to  rise  and  go. 


THE   RED   FISHERMAN.  251 

Fair  luck  to  the  Abbot,  fair  luck  to  the  shriuel 
He  hath  gnawed  in  twain  my  choicest  liae ; 
Let  him  swim  to  the  north,  let  him  swim  to  the 

south, 
The  Abbot  will  carry  my  hook  in  liis  mouth!" 

The  Abbot  had  preached  for  many  years 

"With  as  clear  articulation 
As  ever  was  he-ard  in  the  House  of  Peers 

Against  Emancipation ; 
His  words  had  made  battalions  quake, 

Had  roused  the  zeal  of  martyrs. 
Had  kept  the  Court  an  hour  awake. 

And  the  King  himself  three-quarters: 
But  ever  from  that  hour,  'tis  said, 

He  stammered  and  he  stuttered, 
As  if  an  axe  went  through  his  head 

With  every  word  he  uttered. 
He  stuttered  o'er  blessing,  he  stuttered  o'er  ban, 

He  stuttered,  drunk  or  dry ; 
And  none  but  he  and  the  Fisherman 

Could  tell  the  reason  why  I 

(1827.) 


POEMS  or  LOYE  AND  FANCY, 


Vol.  T.— 17 


LIDIAN'S    LOVE. 

Thn  gayest  gallants  of  the  Coiirt 
Oft  fell  in  love,  on  mere  report, 

With  eyes  they  had  not  seen; 
And  knelt,  and  rhymed,  and  sighed,  and  frowned, 
In  talismanic  fetters  bound. 
With  flowers  and  sunshine  all  around— 

And  fivescore  leagues  between. — MS.  Poem, 

I. 

Sib  Lidian  had  attained  his  sixteenth  year; 

The  golden  age  of  life,  wherein  are  met 
Boyhood's  last  hope  and  Manhood's  earliest  fear 

In  mingled  bliss  and  beauty ; — you  forget 
Your  cradle's  laughter,  and  your  school-room's 
tear, 

Your  maiden  medal,  and  your  first  gazette ; 
But  never,  never,  the  bright  dreams  that  blind 

you 
"When  sixteen  years  are  newly  left  behind  you. 

n. 

The  daily  longings  to  be  very  great, 
The  nightly  studies  to  be  very  killiBg, 

The  blessed  recklessness  of  human  hate. 
The  sonnet-shiging,  and  the  sigh-distilling, 


256  lidian's  love. 

The  chase  of  folly,  and  the  scorn  of  fate, 
Friendship's  fresh  throb,  and  Passion's  April 
thrilling 
For  some  high  lady,  whom  your  elder  brother 
Declares  is  old  enough  to  be  your  Diother. 


Sir  Lidian  had  attained  his  sixteenth  year, 
And  was  the  loveliest  stripling  in  the  land ; 

His  small,  soft  features  and  liis  colour  clear 
"Were  like  a  budding  girl's  ;  his  delicate  hand 

Seemed  fitter  for  the  distaff  than  the  spear; 
Locks  of  bright  brown  his  spotless  forehead 
fanned ; 

And  he  had  ej'es  as  blue  as  summer's  heaven, 

And  stood  a  little  more  than  five  feet  seven. 


No  gallant  flung  a  lance  so  fleet  and  true 

From  the  trained  courser  through  the  golden 
ring; 

No  joyous  harper  at  the  banquet  threw 
A  lighter  touch  across  the  sounding  string ; 

Yet  on  his  cheek  there  was  the  hectic  hue, 
And  in  his  eye  the  fitful  wandering 

"Which  chill  our  praise  to  pity,  that  a  bloom 

So  fresh  and  fair  is  destined  to  the  tomb! 


LIDIAJVf's    LOVE.  257 


And  thoxigh  he  danced  and  played,  as  I  have 
hinted, 
In  dance  and  song  he  took  but  little  pleasuve ; 
He  looked  contented,  though  his  partner  squinted, 
And  seldom  frowned  when  minstrels  marred 
the  measure ; 
When  the  rich  sky  by  evening's  glow  was  tinted, 

More  glad  was  he  to  wander  at  his  leisure, 
Despising  fogs,  apostrophizing  fountains, 
Wasting  the  time,  and  worshipping  the  moun- 
tains. 

VI. 

And  yet  he  had  not  loved !  his  early  fancies 
Of  love,  first  love,  the  transport  and  the  pain, 

Had  been  extracted  from  the  best  romances, 
And  were,  perhaps,  of  too  sublime  a  strain  ; 

So  when  he  woke  from  those  delicious  trances, 
He  shut  his  eyes  and  chose  to  sleep  again, 

Shunning  realities  for  shades,  and  fleeing 

From  all  he  saw  to  all  he  dreamed  of  seeing. 


In  starlit  dells  and  zephyr-haunted  bowers, 
Moistened  by  rivulets,  whose  milky  foam 
Murmured   the   sweetest  music,   where  warm 
showers 


258  lidian's  love. 

That  trickled  fresh   from    Heaven's   eternal 
dome, 
Watered  bright  jewels  that  sprang  up  like  flow- 
ers,— 
In  such  a  scene  his  fancy  found  a  home, 
A  Paradise  of  Fancy's  fabrication, 
Peopled  by  Houris  of  the  heart's  creation  ; — 

Ym. 

Who  never  thrummed  upon  the  virginals, 
Nor  tripped  by  rule,  nor  fortunatelj^  fainted, 

Nor  practised  paying  compliments  and  calls. 
Looking  satirical,  or  looking  sainted. 

Nor  shrieked  attournaTnents,  nor  blushed  atballs, 
Nor    lisped,  nor    sighed,    nor    drooped,    nor 
punned,  nor  painted ; 

Nor  wrote  a  book,  nor  traded  in  caresses. 

Nor  made  remarks  on  other  people's  dresses. 

IX. 

These  were  his  raptures  ; — these  have  all  been 
mine ; 

I  could  have  worshipped  once  a  constellation, 
Filled  the  fine  air  with  habitants  divine, 

Found  in  the  sea  all  sorts  of  inspiration  ; 
Gone  out  at  noonday  with  a  Nymph  to  dine. 

Held  with  an  Echo  charming  conversation, 
Commenced  intriguing  with  a  star,  and  kissed, 
Like  old  Ixiou,  a  coquettish  mist. 


lidian's  love.  259 


tTow  all  is  over !  passion  is  congealing, 
The  glory  of  the  soul  is  pale  and  dim  ; 

[  gaze  all  night  upon  a  whitewashed  ceiling, 
And  get  no  glimpses  of  the  seraphim  ; 

Nothing  is  left  of  high  and  bi-ight  revealing 
But  a  weak  longing  and  a  wayward  whim ; 

And  when  Imagination  takes  the  air. 

She  never  wanders  beyond  Grosvenor  square. 

XI. 

Not  that  I've  been  more  wicked  in  my  day 
Than  some,  perhaps,  who  call  themselves  my 
betters ; 
I  liked  to  prattle  better  than  to  pray, 

And  thought  that  freedom   was  as   sweet  as 
fetters ; 
Yet  when  my  lip  and  lute  are  turned  to  clay, 
The  honest  friend  who  prints  my  Life  aiul 
Letters 
Will  find  few  stories  of  Satanic  arts. 
Of  broken  promises  or  broken  hearts. 

XII. 

But  I  have  moved  too  long  in  cold  society, 
Where  it's  the  fashion  not  to  care  a  rush  ; 

Where  girls  are  always  thinking  of  propriety. 
And  men  are  laughed  at  if  they  chance  to 
blush ; 


260  LIDIAJSr's   LOVE. 

And  thus  I've  caught  the  sickness  of  sobriety, 
Forbidden  sighs  to  sound,  and  tears  to  gush  ; 
Become  a  great  philosopher,  and  curled 
Around  my  heart  the  poisons  of  the  world. 

sill. 
And  I  have  learned  at  last  the  hideous  trick 

Of  laughing  at  whate'er  is  great  or  holy ; 
At  horrid  tales  that  turn  a  soldier  sick, 

At  griefs  that  make  a  Cynic  melancholy ; 
At  Mr.  Lawless,  and  at  Mr.  Brio, 

At  Mr.  Milman,  and  at  Mr.  Oroly; 
At  Talma  and  at  Young,  Macbeth  and  Cinna,  — 
Even  at  you,  adorable  Corinna ! 

XIV, 

To  me  all  light  is  darkness  ; — love  is  lust, 
Painting  soiled  canvas,  poetry  soiled  paper; 

The  fairest  loveliness  a  pinch  of  dust. 
The  proudest  majesty  a  breath  of  vapour; 

I  have  no  sympathy,  no  tear,  no  trust, 

No  morning  musing  and  no  midnight  tapei- 

For  daring  manhood,  or  for  dreaming  youth, 

Or  maiden  purity,  or  matron  truth. 

XV. 

But  sweet  Sir  Lidian  was  far  more  refined  ; 

He  shrank  betimes  from  life  and  life's  defiling; 
His  step  was  on  the  earth,  but  oh !  his  mind 


lidian's  love.  261 

Made  for  itself  a  heaven !  the  fool's  reviling 
He  did  not  seek,  or  shun ;  and  thus,  enshrined 

In  glad  and  innocent  thoughts,  he  went  on 
smiling, 
Alone  in  crowds,  unhearing  and  unheediug, 
Fond  of  the  fields,  and  very  fond  of  reading. 


When  lords  and  ladies  went  to  hunt  together, 
The  milkmaid,  as  he  passed,  kicked  down  her 
pan; 

When  witty  courtiers  criticised  the  weather. 
The  Countess  swore  he  was  a  learned  man ; 

For  him  the  proudest  bowed  beneath  a  feather, 
For  him  the  coldest  blushed  behind  a  fan  ; 

And  titled  dames  gave  fetes  upon  the  water, 

To  introduce  him  to  their  angel  daughter. 


But  happy,  happy  Lidian !  for  he  never 
Watched  the  caprices  of  a  pretty  face  ; 

Nor  longed,  as  I  have  longed,  with  vain  en- 
deavour 
To  tear  that  plaguy  wall  of  Mechlin  lace ; 

His  apathy  seemed  like  to  last  forever ; 
When  suddenly  an  incident  took  place 

Which  broke  the  talisman,  and  burst  the  bubble, 

And  gave  his  friends  considerable  trouble. 


262  ltdian's  love. 

XVIII. 

He  laid  a  bet  upou  his  falcon's  fliglit, 
Eode  home,  as  usually  he  did,  a  -winner  ; 

And  sent  a  dozen  pages  to  invite 

Ten  dozen  Barons  to  a  peacock  dinner  ; 

They  came,  they  ate,  they  talked  through  half 
the  night ; 
And  the  gay  crowd  grew  naturally  thinnei". 

As  old  Sir  Guy,  a  story-teller  stanch, 

Began  the  story  of  the  Lady  Blanch. 

XIX. 

How  she  was  born  just  twenty  years  before  ; 

And  how  her  father  Avas  a  Maltese  Knight, 
Sir  Raymond  styled,  and  skilled  in  knightly  lore. 

And  true  in  love,  and  terrible  in  fight ; 
And  how  her  mother.  Lady  Leonore, 

Had  perished  when  her  oifspring  saw  the  light; 
And  how,  because  there  was  no  other  heir, 
She  was  brought  up  with  most  uncommon  care ; 

XX. 

IIow  she  was  never,  when  she  was  a  child, 
Restrained  in  any  innocent  vagary  ; 

And  how  she  grew  up  beautiful  and  wild,     . 
And  sang  as  sweetly  as  a  caged  canary ; 

And  how  all  artlessly  she  wept  and  smiled ; 
And  how  she  danced  cotillons  like  a  fairy ; 

And  how  she  proved  what  metal  she  was  made  of. 

By  mounting  mares  her  groom  was  quite  afraid  of. 


lidian's  love.  263 

XXI. 

How  Bishop  Bembo  mended  her  cacology, 
And  gave  her  all  the  graces  of  the  Attics ; 

How  Father  Joseph  taught  her  physiology, 
And  Father  Jerome  taught  her  mathematics ; 

And  how  she  picked  up  something  of  astrology 
From  two  white-haired,  long-bearded  Asiatics ; 

And  how  she  had  a  genius  for  gastronomy, 

And  private — not  political — economy  ; — 

XXII. 

And  how,  as  soon  as  she  dismissed  her  tutor, 
And  sat  at  tiltings  for  the  men's  insi)ection, 

She  was  besieged  bj  many  an  anxious  suitor 
AYith  sighs  and  sonnets,  rhetoric  and  affection ; 

And  how  Sir  Eaymond  stood  complotelv neuter; 
And  how  she  gave  to  all  the  same  rejection, 

For  being  serious,  or  for  being  funny. 

For  want  of  genius,  or  for  want  of  money; — 

XXIII. 

And  how  the  father  of  this  matchless  daughter, 
"Who  for  long  years  had  been  a  great  dragooner, 

Found  Fate  as  fickle  as  old  Horace  thought  her, 
AVhich  many  soldiers  find  a  great  deal  sooner ; 

How  he  was  grounded  in  some  shallow  water, 
And  taken  prisoner  by  a  pirate  schooner ; 

And  how  the  Bey  of  Tunis  made  a  slave  of  him, 

And  swore  one  day  the  sea  should  be  the  grave 
of  him  ; — 


264  lidian's  love. 


And  how  poor  Blanch,  when  that  sad  tale  was 
told  her, 

Speechless  and  senseless,  feE  upon  her  face ; 
And  how  'twas  all  two  knights  could  do  to  hold 
her; 

And  how,  at  last,  she  took  her  writing-case, 
And  wrote,  before  she  was  a  minute  older, 

To  pray  that  she  might  fill  her  father's  place, 
Suggesting  that  a  maiden,  young  and  handsome, 
"Was  more  than  worth  an  ugly  old  man's  ransom ; 


And  how  the  Bey  behaved  himself  correctly. 
Knowing  such  beauty  was  not  for  a  Bey ; 

And  how  he  shipped  her,  very  cii'cumspectly, 
A  present  for  the  Sultan's  oAvn  serai ; 

And  how  the  Sultan  fell  iu  love  directly  ; 

And  how  he  begged  her,  one  fine  summer's 
day, 

To  calm  her  passion,  and  assuage  her  grief, 

And  share  his  throne,  his  bed,  and  his  belief; — 


And  how  she  told  him  his  proposals  shocked  her, 
Crescent  and  crown  heroically  spiirning  ; 

And  how  she  reasoned  with  a  Turkish,  doctor; 
And  how  the  Muftis  marvelled  at  her  learning ; 

And  how  the  Vizier  in  a  dungeon  locked  her ; 


LIDIAX'S    LOVE.  265 

And  how  three  Pachas  recommended  burning; 
And  how,  in  spite  of  all  their  inhumanity, 
She  kept  her  character  and  Christianity  ; — 

XXTII. 

ITow  she  escaped  by  preaching  to  her  jailer ; 

IIow  Selini  tore  his  beard  and  wore  his  willow ; 
How  she  put  on  the  trousers  of  a  sailor  ; 

IIow  Zephyr  kindly  helped  her  o'er  the  billow ; 
How  all  her  friends  were  very  glad  to  hail  her ; 

How  she  was  married  now  to  Don  Pedrillo ; 
And  how  she  showed,  by  every  look  and  action, 
Slie  loved  her  lord  and  master  to  distraction. 


Such  was  the  tale ; — a  tale  to  make  men  weep. 
Yet  half  the  guests  were  laughing  in  their 
sleeve ; 

Some  fell  a-fighting,  others  fell  asleep, 

Tlie  wild  took  bumpers,  and  the  wise  took 
leave ; 

But  oh,  the  trance,  so  passionate  and  deep, 
In  which  Sir  Lidian  sate  ! — you  might  believe 

From  his  short  breathing,  and  his  gushing  tears, 

His  vcy  soul  was  listening,  not  his  ears. 

XXIX. 

Oh,  what  a  treasure  all  such  listeners  are  ! 
He  longed  to  praise,  but  held  his  tongue  to 
wonder. 


266  lidian's  love. 

Eapt  as  a  cornet  ere  his  maiden  war, 
Dumb  as  a  schoolboy  when  be  doubts  a  blun- 
der, 

Pale  as  a  culprit  at  the  fatal  bar, 

Faint  as  a  lady  in  a  storm  of  thunder. 

And  wild  of  heart,  as  I  sometimes  have  been, 

When  you  were  singing,  silver-toned  Adine ! — 

XXX. 

Queen  of  enchanting  sounds,  at  whose  sweet  will 
The  spirit  sinks  and  rises,  glows  and  shivers, 

Your  voice  is  now  for  dearer  friends ;  but  still 
In  my  lone  heart  its  every  echo  quivers, 

A  viewless  melody  ! — no  purer  thrill 

Do  fairies  wake  from  their  own  groves  and 
rivers, 

When  they  would  fling  on  minstrels'  dreams  by 
night 

Some  bounteous  vision  of  intense  delight. 


You've  very  often  asked  me  for  a  song; 

I've  very  often  promised  to  bestovv'  it ; 
But  when  my  admiration  is  most  strong, 

I'm  frequently  the  least  disposed  to  show  it ; 
However,  here  I  swear  that  I  have  long 

Sighed  to  be  styled  your  four-and-twentietli 
poet, 
And  that  your  voice  is  richer  far  to  me, 
Than  a  fat  client's,  five  years  hence,  will  be. — - 


lidiak's  love.  267 

xxxn. 
But  all  this  time  Sir  Guy  was  in  liis  glory ; 

He  was  not  used  to  be  respected  so ; 
For  though  he  once  was  matchless  at  a  story, 

Age  chills  the  tongue,  and   checks  the  hu- 
mour's flow ; 
His  talk  grew  tedious  as  his  hairs  grew  hoary  ; 

And  coxcombs  stopped  his — "Fifty  years  ago," 
With  questions  of  their  hawking,  hunting,  baitmg. 
Or — ''Fair  Sir  Guy,  the  hypocras  is  waiting." 


Hence,  when  he  saw  in  AA'hat  a  mute  abstraction 
His  youthful  host  to  his  romance  attended, 

He  took  unusual  pains  with  every  fraction. 
Kept  his  denouement  artfully  suspended ; 

Grew  quite  theatrical  in  tone  and  action. 
And  went  away  as  soon  as  he  had  ended, 

Supported  to  his  palfrey  by  a  vassal. 

Half  drunk  with  vanity,  and  half  with  wassail. 

XXXIV. 

The  guests  are  gone !  within  that  lofty  hall 
No  boastful  baron  curls  his  wet  mustaches ; 

The  wreaths  of  flowers  are  withered  on  the  wall. 
The  logs  upon  the  earth  are  dust  aud  ashes; 

Where  late  some  lover  pledged   his   amorous 
thrall, 
The  wine-cup  stands  inverted;  aud  the  flashes 


268  lidian's  love. 

From  torch  and  taper  o'er  the  bright  floor  throwr 
Tall  faiut  and  rare  !— Sir  Lidian  is  alone. 

XXXV. 

Alone?— Oh,  no!  the  Lady  and  her  grieving 
Too  truly,  deeply,  on  his  soul  are  wrought ; 

She  has  become  to  him  his  heart's  conceivhig, 
The  very  essence  of  the  love  he  sought, 

A  present  hope,  a  passionate  believing, 
A  sleepless  vision,  an  embodied  thought ; 

Not  fancy  quite,  nor  quite  materiality, 

Too  clear  for  dream,  too  lovely  for  reality. 

XXXVI. 

Hark !  the  wind  whistles  through  the  grove  of 
fii's ; — 

The  Lady  Blanch  beneath  their  shade  reposes : 
Lo !  the  dark  tapestry  in  the  torchlight  stirs  ;— 

The  Lady  Blanch  beneath  the  curtain  dozes: 
He  gazes  on  his  pictured  ancestors. 

And  even  there,  the  ancient  lips  and  noses 
Recall,  with  most  astonishing  activity. 
The  Lady  Blanch,  her  charms  and  her  captivity. 

XXXVII. 

And  now  she  looks  into  his  slumb'rous  eyes, 
And  now  she  trifles  with  his  floAving  tresses ; 

He  speaks  to  her— anon  her  lip  replies ; 

He    kneels    to    her,— she    shrinks    from    his 
caresses ; 


LIDIAJS^'S    LOVE.  269 

Coining  all  eloquence  of  smiles  and  sighs, 

Wearing    by    turns    a   thousand    forms    and 
dresses, 
Beauteous  in  all! — alone ?^n  bliss  or  pain, 
Sir  Lidian  ne'er  will  be  alone  again ! 

XXXVIII. 

Poor  youth  I  the  chamber  now  was  wrapj^ed  in 
gloom, 

The  servants  all  had  gone  to  rest ;  but  still  he 
"Wandered  in  silence  up  and  down  the  room. 

Forgetting  that  the  morning  would  be  chilly ; 
Tossing  about  his  mantle  and  his  plume, 

And  looking  very  sad,  and  very  silly  ; 
At  last  he  snatched  his  harp,  and  stopped  his 

tread. 
And  warbled  thus  before  he  went  to  bed  : — 

"  0  Love !  0  beauteous  Love ! 

Thy  home  is  made  for  all  sweet  things, 
A  dwelling  for  thine  own  soft  dove 

And  souls  as  spotless  as  her  wings ; 
There  summer  ceases  never : 
The  trees  are  rich  with  luscious  fruits, 

The  bowers  are  full  of  joyous  throngs, 
And  gales  that  come  from  Heaven's  own  lutes 

And  rivulets  whose  streams  are  songs 
Go  murmuring  on  forever ! 

Vol..  I.— 18 


270  lidian's  loye. 

"  0  Love !  0  wretched  Love ! 

Thy  home  is  made  for  bitter  care ; 
And  sounds  are  in  thy  myrtle-grove 

Of  late  repentance,  long  despair, 
Of  feigning  and  forsaking  : 
Thy  banquet  is  the  doubt  and  fear 

That  come,  we  know  not  whence  or  why, 
The  smile  that  hardly  masks  a  tear, 

The  laughter  that  is  half  a  sigh. 

The  heart  that  jests  in  breaking! 

"  0  Love !  0  faithless  Love ! 

Thy  home  is  like  the  roving  star, 
"Wliich  seems  so  fair,  so  far  above 

The  world  where  woes  and  sorrows  are ; 
But  could  we  wander  thither, 
There's  nothing  but  another  earth. 

As  dark  and  restless  as  our  own, 
"Where  Misery  is  child  of  Mirth, 

And  every  heart  is  born  to  groan. 
And  every  flower  to  wither  I" 

(1826.) 


MY   FIRST   FOLLY.  271 

MY    FIRST    FOLLY. 

STANZAS   "WEITTEN   AT   MIDNIGHT. 

Peettt  Coquette,  the  ceaseless  play 

Of  thine  unstudied  wit, 
And  thy  dark  eye's  remembered  ray 

By  buoyant  fancy  lit, 
And  thy  young  forehead's  clear  expanse, 
Where  the  locks  slept,  as  through  the  dance, 

Dreamlike,  I  saw  thee  flit. 
Are  far  too  warm  and  far  too  fair 
To  mix  with  aught  of  earthly  care ; 
But  the  vision  shall  come  when  my  day  is  done, 
A  frail  and  a  fair  and  a  fleeting  one ! 

And  if  the  many  boldly  gaze 

On  that  bright  brow  of  thine. 
And  if  thine  eye's  undjdng  rays 

On  countless  coxcombs  shine, 
And  if  thy  wit  flings  out  its  mirth, 
Which  echoes  more  of  air  than  earth, 

For  other  ears  than  mine, 
I  heed  not  this ;  ye  are  fickle  things, 
And  I  like  your  very  wanderings ; 
I  gaze,  and  if  thousands  share  the  bliss, 
Pretty  capricious !  I  heed  not  this. 


272  A   SHOOTING    STAR. 

In  sooth  I  am  a  wayward  youth, 

As  fickle  as  the  sea, 
And  very  apt  to  speak  the  trutji, 

Unpleasing  though  it  be. 
T  am  no  lover ;  yet  as  long 
As  I  have  heart  for  jest  or  song, 

An  image,  Sweet,  of  thee, 
Locked  in  my  heart's  remotest  treasures. 
Shall  ever  be  one  of  its  hoarded  pleasures  ,- 
This  from  the  scoffer  thou  hast  won, 
And  more  than  this  he  gives  to  none. 

(20th  December,  1821.) 


A    SHOOTING    STAR, 

"  Au  ignis  fatuns  gleam  of  love." — Byron. 

A  Shooting  Star ! — the  dim  blue  night 

Gleamed  where  the  wanderer  went, 
(|\)r  it  flung  a  stream  of  gushing  light 

Around  its  bright  ascent. 
I  saw  it  fade ! — in  cold  and  cloud 

The  young  light  fleeted  by, 
And  the  shrill  night-wind  whistled  loud, 
As  Darkness  spread  her  solemn  shroud 

Over  the  midnight  sky. 


A   SHOOTING    STAR.  273 

Thou  Maiden  of  tlie  secret  spell, 
Star  of  the  soul,  farewell,  farewell  I 
E'en  such  has  been  thy  lovely  light. 
So  calmly  keen,  so  coldly  bright ; 
A  meteor,  seen  and  worshipped  only 
To  leave  a  lonely  heart  more  lonely. 
The  Star  hath  set ! — the  spell  is  broken ; 
And  thou  hast  left  behind  no  token — 
No  token,  lovely  one,  to  me. 
Of  what  thou  art,  or  art  to  be ; 
Except  one  dear  and  cherished  thought, 
In  Memory's  sunless  caverns  wrought, 
One  moonlight  ^^sion,  one  sweet  shade, 
Quick  to  appear,  and  slow  to  fade, 
A  warm  and  silent  recollection. 
The  fancy's  dream,  the  heart's  affection. 

Bright  be  thy  lot  in  other  years  ! — 

Fill  high  the  cup  of  wine ; 
In  all  the  pain  of  hopes  and  fears 
I  will  not  bathe  with  any  tears 

That  laughing  love  of  thine. 
Yet  often  in  my  waking  slumbers 
Thy  voice  shall  speak  its  magic  numbers, 
And  I  shall  think  on  that  dark  brow 
On  which  ray  fancy  gazes  now. 
And  sit  in  revery  lone  and  long 
To  muse  on  that  Italian  song. 


274  STANZAS. 

And  thou,  perhaps,  in  happier  times, 
And  fairer  scenes,  and  warmer  climes, 
"Wilt  think  of  one  who  would  not  dim 
With  aught  of  care  that  wit  and  whim, 
Of  one  who  oft,  in  other  years. 

Mils  high  the  cup  of  wine. 
Because,  in  all  his  hopes  and  fears, 
He  will  not  bathe  with  any  tears 

That  laughing  love  of  thine ! 

(Maeoh  15, 1322.) 


STANZAS 

WEITTEN   FOE   A    FRIEND. 

Bliss  to  those  that  love  thee  ! 

Bliss  to  those  thou  lovest ! 
May  Heaven  smile  above  thee 

Wheresoe'er  thou  rovest ! 
May  no  storm  come  nigh  thee 

On  the  tumbling  ocean ! 
May  the  green  wave  ripple  by  thee 

With  a  lulhng  motion ! 

The  wild  voice  of  thy  laughter 
Hath  fleeted  from  before  me, 


l'inconnue.  275 

But  an  echo  lingers  after, 

Flinging  magic  o'er  me ! 
Thy  fair  smile  is  not  beaming 

Its  young  mirth  around  me, 
But  I  dote  upon  it,  dreaming, 

When  the  spell  hath  bound  me. 

I  cannot  see  or  hear  thee, 

Dearest  of  Earth's  daughters ; 
But  my  soul  is  ever  near  thee, 

On  the  quiet  waters. 
Bliss  to  those  that  love  thee ! 

Bliss  to  those  thou  lovest! 
And  may  Heaven  smile  above  thee 

Wheresoe'er  thou  rovest! 


(1822.) 


L'INCONNUE, 


Many  a  beaming  brow  I've  known, 

And  many  a  dazzling  eye. 
And  I've  listened  to  many  a  melting  tone 

In  magic  fleeting  by ; 
And  mine  was  never  a  heart  of  stone. 
And  yet  my  heart  hath  given  to  none 

Tlie  tribute  of  a  sigh ; 


276  l'inconnde. 

For  Fancy's  wild  and  witching  mirth 
"Was  dearer  than  aught  I  found  on  earth, 
And  the  fairest  forms  I  ever  Icnew 
"Were  far  less  fair  than — L'Inconnue ! 

Many  an  eye  that  once  was  bright 

Is  dark  to-day  in  gloom ! 
Many  a  voice  that  once  was  light 

Is  silent  in  the  tomb  ; 
Many  a  flower  that  once  was  dight 
In  beauty's  most  entrancing  might 

Hath  faded  in  its  bloom  ; 
But  she  is  still  as  fair  and  gay 
As  if  she  had  sprung  to  life  to-day ; 
A  ceaseless  tone  and  a  deathless  hue 
Wild  Fancy  hath  given  to — L'Inconnue. 

Many  an  eye  of  piercing  jet 

Hath  only  gleamed  to  grieve  me ; 
Many  a  fairy  form  I've  met, 

But  none  have  wept  to  leave  me  ; 
When  all  forsake,  and  all  forget, 
One  pleasant  dream  shall  haunt  me  yet, 

One  hope  shall  not  deceive  me  : 
For  oh,  when  all  beside  is  past, 
Fancy  is  found  onr  friend  at  last, 
And  the  faith  is  firm  and  the  love  is  true 
Which  are  vowed  by  the  lips  of  L'Inconnue  ! 


PEACE   BE   THESTE.  277 


PEACE  BE  THINE. 

"When  SorroTV  moves  with  silent  tread 
Around  some  mortal's  buried  dust, 

And  muses  on  the  mouldering  dead 

"Who  sleep  beneath  their  crumbling  bust, 

Though  all  unheard  and  all  unknown 

The  name  on  that  sepulchral  stone, 
She  looks  on  its  recording  line, 
And  whispers  kindly,  "Peace  be  thine  !" 

0  Lady !  me  thou  knowest  not, 

And  what  I  am,  or  am  to  be ; 
The  pain  and  pleasure  of  my  lot 

Are  naught,  and  must  be  naught,  to  thee; 
Thou  seest  not  my  hopes  and  fears ; 
Yet  thou  perhaps,  in  other  years, 

"Wilt  look  on  this  recording  line, 

And  whisper  kindly,  "Peace  be  thine!" 


278  TO 


TO 


We  met  but  in  one  giddy  dance, 

Good-night  joined  hands  with  greeting ; 
And  twenty  thousand  things  may  chance 

Before  our  second  meeting  : 
For  oh,  I  have  been  often  told 

That  all  the  world  grows  older. 
And  hearts  and  hopes,  to-day  so  cold, 

To-morrow  must  be  colder 

II. 
K I  have  never  touched  the  string 

Beneath  your  chamber,  dear  one, 
And  never  said  one  civil  thing 

"When  you  were  by  to  hear  one, — 
If  I  have  made  no  rhymes  about 

Those  looks  which  conquer  Stoics, 
And  heard  those  angel-tones,  without 

One  fit  of  fair  heroics, — 

III. 
Yet  do  not,  though  the  world's  cold  school 
Some  bitter  truths  has  taught  me, 


TO  ■ .  279 

Oh,  do  not  deem  me  quite  the  fool 
Whicli  wiser  friends  have  thought  me ! 

There  is  one  charm  I  still  could  feel, 
If  no  one  laughed  at  feeling ; 

One  dream  my  lute  could  still  reveal, — 
If  it  were  worth  revealing. 


But  Folly  little  cares  what  name 

Of  friend  or  foe  she  handles, 
"When  merriment  directs  the  game, 

And  midnight  dims  the  candles  ; 
I  know  that  Folly's  breath  is  weak, 

And  would  not  stir  a  feather  ; 
But  yet  I  would  not  have  her  speak 

Your  name  and  mine  together, 

V. 

Oh,  no  !  this  life  is  dark  and  bright. 

Half  rapture  and  half  sorrow  ; 
My  heart  is  very  full  to-night, 

Mj  cup  shall  be  to-morrow ; 
But  they  sliall  never  know  from  me, 

On  any  one  condition, 
Whose  health  made  bright  my  Burgundy, 

Whose  beauty  was  my  vision ! 


280  TO  . 

TO  — . 

II. 

I. 

As  o'er  the  deep  the  seaman  roves 

With  cloud  and  storm  above  him, 
Far,  far  from  all  the  smiles  he  loves, 

And  aU  the  hearts  that  love  him, 
'Tis  sweet  to  find  some  friendly  mast 

O'er  that  same  ocean  sailing, 
And  listen  in  the  hollow  blast 

To  hear  the  pilot's  hailing. 


On  rolls  the  sea !  and  brief  the  bliss, 

And  farewell  follows  greeting ; 
On  rolls  the  sea !  one  hour  is  his 

For  parting  and  for  meeting  ; 
And  who  shall  teU,  on  sea  or  shore, 

In  sorrow  or  in  laughter, 
If  he  shall  see  that  vessel  more. 

Or  hear  that  voice  hereafter  ? 


And  thus,  as  on  through  shine  and  shower 
My  fickle  shallop  dances, 


TO  .  281 

And  trembles  at  all  storms  that  lower, 

And  courts  all  summer  glances, 
'Tis  very  sweet,  when  thoughts  oppress 

And  follies  fail  to  cheer  me, 
To  find  some  looks  of  loveliness, 

Some  tones  of  kindness,  near  me. 

IV. 

And  yet  I  feel,  while  hearts  are  gay, 

And  smiles  are  bright  around  me. 
That  those  who  greet  me  on  my  way 

Must  leave  me  as  they  found  me, — 
To  rove  again,  as  erst  I  roved, 

Through  winter  and  rough  weather, 
And  think  of  all  the  friends  I  loved, 

But  loved  and  lost  together : 

V. 

And  scenes  and  smiles,  so  pure  and  glad, 

Are  found  and  worshipped  only 
To  make  our  sadness  seem  more  sad, 

Our  loneliness  more  lonely ; — 
It  matters  not !  a  pleasant  dream 

At  best  can  be  but  dreaming ; 
And  if  the  true  may  never  beam, 

Oh!  who  would  slight  the  seeming? 

VI. 

And  o'er  the  world  my  foot  may  roam, 
Through  foreign  griefs  and  pleasures, 


282  TO  . 

And  otlier  climes  may  be  my  home, 
And  other  hearts  my  treasures ; 

But  in  the  mist  of  memory 

Shall  time  and  space  be  cheated, 

Lnd.  those  kind  looks  revived  shall  be, 
And  those  soft  tones  repeated ! 

VII. 

Believe, — if  e'er  this  rhyme  recall 

One  thought  of  him  who  frames  it, — 
Believe  him  one  who  brings  his  all 

Where  Love  or  Friendship  claims  it ; 
Though  cold  the  eurftxce  of  his  heart, 

There's  warmth  beneath  the  embers ; 
Fvr  all  it  hopes,  it  would  not  part 

With  rught  that  it  remembers ! 


TO 


III. 


BKatot  ie  vis  rassembler  antour  de  moi  tous  les  objets  qui 
V*.  'Cat  domi6  de  rSmotion  dans  ma  jeunesse." — Rousseau. 


0  Ljiuy,  when  I  mutely  gaze 

On  eyes,  whose  chastened  splendour 
Forbids  the  flatterer's  wanton  praise, 

And  makes  the  Cynic  tender, 


TO  .  283 


Believe  not  that  my  gaze  that  night 
Has  nothing,  Lady,  in  it, 

Beyond  one  vision  of  delight, 
The  rapture  of  one  minute. 


And,  Lady,  when  my  ear  has  heard 

That  voice,  whose  natural  gladness 
Has  caught  from  Heaven,  like  some  sweet  bird, 

Its  tone  of  sainted  sadness. 
Believe  not  that  those  uttered  words 

Li  the  far  winds  have  fleeted, 
Lite  echoes  from  my  own  poor  chords, 

Uncherished,  unrepeated. 

III. 

Within  the  soul,  where  Memory  shrouds 

"Whate'er  has  bloomed  and  faded, 
And  consecrates  the  very  clouds 

By  which  her  cells  are  shaded, 
Ee-echoed  from  unnoticed  strings, 

Traced  by  an  unseen  finger, 
Amid  all  holy  thoughts  and  things 

Those  smiles,  those  words,  will  linger ! 

IV. 

The  present  is  a  narrow  cave. 
With  gloomy  walls  to  bound  it ; 

The  future  is  a  pathless  wave 
With  darkness  all  around  it ; 


284  TO  . 

But  I  did  fill  the  shadowy  past, 
As  Life  was  loitering  through  it, 

With  many  a  shape  which  beams  at  last, 
As  bright  as  Boyhood  knew  it. 


Those  shapes  are  viewless  to  the  eye, 

But  still  the  heart  enjoys  them; 
And  Fancy  can  their  hues  supply 

As  fast  as  Time  destroys  them  ; 
TJntil  the  past,  with  all  its  dreams 

Of  love,  and  light,  and  glory, 
Is  fairer  than  the  future  seems 

In  fabling  Mecca's  story. 

VI. 

And  though  I  weep,  as  I  repair 

Some  bitter  recollection 
Of  bootless  labour,  baflfled  prayer, 

Scorned  passion,  crushed  affection, 
Yet  I  would  never  give  away 

One  tear  of  such  rare  sorrow 
For  all  I  have  of  bliss  to-day. 

Or  all  I  hope  to-morrow. 

VII. 

Lady,  if  I  would  e'er  renew, 

When  Care's  cold  night  has  bound  me, 
The  brightest  morn  that  ever  threw 

Its  youthful  radiance  round  me, 


TO  ■ -.  285 

Or  deck  with  bloom,  when  Hope  is  bare, 
And  Pleasure's  wreaths  are  serest, 

Of  all  dead  flowers,  so  dear  and  fair, 
The  fairest  and  the  dearest, — 


If,  when  my  lute  in  other  days 

Is  silent  or  unheeded, 
I  would  revive  one  voice,  whose  praise 

"Was  all  the  fame  it  needed, — 
If,  when  faise  Friendship  has  betrayed 

Or  fickle  Love  deceived  me, 
My  heart  would  cling  to  one  soft  shade 

Which  could  not  so  have  gi-ieved  me,- 

IX. 

In  bower  or  banquet,  heath  or  hill. 

The  form  I  seek  will  glisten ; 
Again  the  liquid  voice  will  thrill. 

The  fair  face  bend  to  listen : 
But  whatsoe'er  the  hour  or  place, 

No  bribe  or  prayer  shall  win  me 
To  say  whose  voice,  or  form,  or  face 

That  spell  awoke  within  mel 

Vol.  I.— 19 


286  THE   POETEATT. 


THE    PORTRAIT. 

Oh,  yes !  these  lips  are  very  fair, 

Half  lifted  to  the  sky, 
As  if  they  breathed  an  angel's  prayer 

Mxed  with  a  mortal's  sigh  ; 
But  theirs  is  not  the  song  that  flings 
O'er  evening's  still  imaginings 

Its  cherished  witchery ; 
No,  these  are  not  the  lips  whose  tone 
Sad  Memory  has  made  her  own. 

And  these  long  curls  of  dazzling  brown 

In  many  a  fairy  wreath 
Float  brightly,  beautifully,  down 

Upon  the  brow  beneath ; 
But  these  are  not  the  locks  of  jet 
For  which  I  sought  the  violet 

On  that  remembered  heath  ; 
No,  these  are  not  the  locks  that  gleam 
Around  me  in  my  moonlight  dream. 

And  these  blue  eyes — a  very  saint 
Might  envy  their  pure  rays — 

Are  such  as  limners  learn  to  paint, 
And  poets  long  to  praise  ; 


TO    ■ . 

But  theirs  is  not  the  speaking  glauce 
On  which,  in  all  its  young  romance, 

My  spirit  loves  to  gaze ; 
ISTo,  these  are  not  the  eyes  that  shine. 
Like  never-setting  stars,  on  mine. 

By  those  sweet  songs  I  hear  to-night, 
Those  black  locks  on  the  brow, 

And  those  dark  eyes,  whose  living  light 
Is  beaming  o'er  me  now, 

I  worship  naught  but  what  thou  ai't ! 

Let  all  that  was — decay — depart, 
I  care  not  when  or  how  ; 

And  fairer  far  these  hues  may  be, — 

They  seem  not  half  so  fair  to  me  ! 

(182&) 


287 


TO 


Still  is  the  earth,  and  still  the  sky ; 

The  midnight  moon  is  fleeting  by ; 

And  all  the  world  is  wrapped  in  sleep, 

But  the  hearts  that  love,  and  the  eyes  that  weep. 


288  TO  . 

II. 

And  now  is  tlie  time  to  kiss  the  flo'n^ers 
Wliicli  sliun  the  sunbeam's  busy  hours  ; 
For  the  book  is  shut,  and  the  mind  is  free 
To  gaze  on  them,  and  to  think  of  thee. 


Withered  thev  are  and  pale  in  sooth ; 
So  are  the  radiant  hopes  of  j-outh  ; 
But  Love  can  give  with  a  single  breath 
Bloom  to  languor,  and  life  to  death. 

IT. 

Though  I  must  greet  thee  with  a  tone 
As  calm  to-morrow  as  thine  own, 
Oh !  Fancy's  vision,  Passion's  vow, 
May  be  told  in  stillness  and  darkness  now! 

V. 

For  the  veil  from  the  soul  is  rent  away 
Which  it  wore  in  the  glare  of  gaudy  day; 
And  more,  much  more,  the  heart  may  feel 
Than  the  pen  may  write  or  the  lip  reveal. 

VI. 

Why  can  I  not  forego — forget 

That  ever  I  loved  thee — that  ever  we  met? 

There  is  not  a  single  link  or  sign 

To  blend  my  lot  in  the  world  with  thine : 


TO  .  289 

YII. 

I  know  not  tlie  scenes  wliere  tliou  hast  roved, 
I  see  not  tlie  faces  whicli  thou  hast  loved, — 
Thou  art  to  me  as  a  pleasant  dream 
Of  a  hoat  that  sails  on  a  distant  stream. 

VIII. 

Thou  smilest!  I  am  glad  tlie  while. 

But  I  share  not  the  joy  that  bids  thee  smile ; 

Thou  grievest !  when  thy  grief  is  deepest, 

I  Aveep,  but  I  know  not  for  whom  thou  weepest. 

IX. 

I  would  change  life's  Spring   for  his  roughest 

weather, 
If  we  might  bear  the  storm  together ; 
And  give  my  hopes  for  half  thy  fears. 
And  sell  my  smiles  for  half  thy  tears. 

X. 

Give  me  one  common  bliss  or  woe, 
One  common  friend,  one  common  foe, 
On  the  earth  below,  or  the  clouds  above, 
One  thing  we  both  may  loathe,  or  love. 

XI. 

It  may  not  be ;  but  yet — but  yet 
Oh,  deem  not  I  can  e'er  forget ! 
For  fondness  such  as  mine  supplies 
The  sympathy  which  Fate  denies: 


290  TO 


And  all  my  feelings,  well  thou  knowest, 
Go  with  thee,  Lady,  where'er  thou  goest ; 
And  my  wayward  spirit  bows  to  thee, 
Its  first  and  last  idolatry ! 


TO 


I. 

In  such  a  time  as  this,  when  every  heart  is  light, 

And  greetings  sound  more  welcome,  and  faces 
smile  more  bright. 

Oh,  how  wearily — how  wearily  my  spirit  wan- 
ders back 

Among  the  faded  joys  that  lie  on  Memory's 
ruined  track ! 

Wliere  art  thou,  best  and  fairest?  I  call  to  theo 
in  vain ; 

And  thou  art  lone  and  distant  far,  in  sickness 
and  in  pain ! 

II. 
Beloved  one,  if  anguish  would  fall  wliere  fall  it 

may. 
If  sorrow  could  be  wou  by  gifts  to  barter  prey 

for  prey, 


TO  .  291 

There  is  an  arm  would  wither,  so  tliine  revived 

might  be ; 
A  lip  which  would  be  still  and  mute,  to  make 

thy  music  free ; 
An  eye  which  would  forget  to  wake,  to  bid  thy 

morning  shine ; 
A  heart  whose  very  strings  would  break,  to  steal 

one  pang  from  thine. 

in. 

If  this  be  all  too  wild  a  wish,  it  were  an  humbler 

prayer 
That  I  might  sit  beside  thy  couch,  watching  and 

weeping  there ; 
Alas,  that  grief  should  sever  the  hearts  it  most 

endears, — 
That  friends  who  have  been  joined  in  smiles,  are 

parted  in  their  tears, — 
That  when  there's  danger  in  the  path,  or  poison 

in  the  bowl, 
Unloving  hands  must   minister,   unloving  lips 

console ! 

IT. 

Yet  in  the  twilight  hour,  when  all  our  hopes 

seem  true, 
And  Fancy's  wild  imaginings  take  living  form 

and  hue, 
I  linger,  and  thou  chidest  not,  beside  thy  lonely 

bed, 


292  TO  . 

And   do   thy  biddings,  dearest,  with    slow  and 

noiseless  tread. 
And  tremble  all  the  while  at  the  feeblest  wind 

that  blows. 
As  if  indeed  its  idle  breath  were  breaking  tliy 

repose. 

V. 

To  kiss  thine  eyelids,   when  they  droop  with 

heaviness  and  pain, 
To  pour  sad  tears  upon  thy  hand,  the  heart's 

most  precious  rain. 
To  mark  the  changing  colour  as  it  flits  across  thy 

cheek, 
To  feel  thy  very  wishes  ere  the  feverish  lip  can 

speak, 
To  listen  for  the  weakest  Avord,  watch  for  the 

lightest  token. 
Oh  bliss,  that  such  a  dream  should  be !  oh  pain, 

that  it  is  broken  1 

TI. 

Farewell,  ray  best  beloved;  beloved,  fare  thee 

weU! 
I  may  not  mourn  where  thou  dost  weep,  nor  be 

where  thou  dost  dwell ; 
But  when  the  friend  I  trusted  all  coldly  turns 

away, 
When  the   warmest  feelings  wither,   and   the 

dearest  hopes  decay, 


THE    PAKTING.  293 

To  thee — to  thee — thou  knowest,  whate'ei-  my 

lot  may  be, 
For  comfort  and  for  happiness,  my  spirit  turns 

to  thee. 


THE  PARTING. 

"  Alia  prigione  antica 
Queir  augellin  ritorna 
Ancorchfe  mano  amica 

Gli  abbia  disciolto  il  pi6." 

Metasiasio. 

I. 

Farewell  ; — I  will  not  now 

The  wasted  theme  renew ; 
No  cloud  upon  my  cheek  or  brow 

Shall  wake  one  pang  for  you ; 
But  here,  unseen,  unheard, 

Ere  evening's  shadows  fly, 
I  will  but  say  that  one  weak  word. 

And  pass  unwelcomed  by. 


Farewell ; — but  it  is  strange, 
As  round  your  towers  I  roam, 

To  think  how  desolate  a  change 
Has  come  o'er  heart  and  home ; 


294  THE   PAKTESTG. 

Where  stranger-minstrels  throng, 
"Where  harsher  harps  are  cherished, 

The  very  memory  of  my  song 
Is,  like  its  echo,  perished. 

m. 
The  hird  your  gold  has  brought 

From  its  own  Orient  bowers, 
Where  every  wandering  wind  is  fraught 

With  the  sweet  breath  of  flowers, 
Will  never  murmur  more 

A  note  so  clear  and  high 
As  that  which  he  was  wont  to  pour 

Beneath  his  native  sky. 

IV. 

Yet  'twere  a  cruel  thing, 

If  Pity's  tears  and  sighs 
Could  give  the  breezes  to  his  wing. 

The  daylight  to  his  eyes ; 
His  vision  is  the  night, 

Ilis  home  the  prison,  now. 
He  could  not  look  upon  the  light. 

Nor  sleep  upon  the  bough. 

Y. 

Lady,  when  first  your  mirth 

Flung  magic  o'er  my  way, 
Mine  was  the  gayest  soul  on  earth 

When  all  the  earth  was  gay ; 


THE   PARTING.  295 

My  songs  were  full  of  joy, — 
You  might  have  let  them  flow  ; 

My  heart  was  evei-y  woman's  toy, — 
You  might  have  left  it  so  ! 

TI. 

But  now  to  send  me  back 

To  faded  hopes  and  fears, 
To  bid  me  seek  again  the  track 

My  foot  has  left  for  years ; 
To  cancel  what  must  be, 

To  alter  what  has  been, — 
Ah !  this  indeed  is  mockery 

Fit  for  a  Fairy  Queen ! 

VII. 

The  lip  that  was  so  gay 

More  dark  and  still  hath  grown  ; 
The  listless  lute  of  yesterday 

Hath  learned  a  sadder  tone  ; 
And  uttered  is  the  thought, 

And  written  is  the  vow  ; — 
You  might  have  left  this  charm  unwrought — ■ 

You  must  not  rend  it  now ! 

VIII. 

'Wlien  first  upon  my  lance 

I  saw  the  fair  sun  shine, 
I  courted  not  that  fairer  glance, — 

And  yet  it  turned  to  mine  ; 


296  THE   PAKTTN^G. 

When  music's  rich  deliglit 
From  lips  so  lovely  came, 

I  looked  not  on  those  lips  that  night,- 
And  yet  they  breathed  my  name  I 

IX. 

When  our  last  words  were  broken 

By  passion's  bitter  tears, 
I  asked  not  the  recording  token 

"Which  I  must  love  for  years ; 
And  when  between  us  lay 

Long  tracks  of  sand  and  sea, 
The  carrier-pigeon  went  his  way 

Unbegged,  unbought,  by  me. 

X. 

Farewell ! — when  I  was  bound 

In  every  Beauty's  thrall, 
I  could  have  lightly  vrhispered  round 

That  little  word  to  all ; 
And  now  that  I  am  cold, 

And  deemed  the  slave  of  none, 
I  marvel  how  my  lips  have  told 

That  little  word  to  one. 

XL 

Farewell ! — since  bliss  so  rare 
Hath  beamed  but  to  betray, 

It  will  be  long  ere  I  shall  wear 
The  smile  I  wore  to-day  ; 


THE  LAST.  297 


And  since  I  weep  not  here 
To  call  jou  false  and  vain, 

I  think  I  shall  not  shed  one  tear 
For  all  this  world  a^ain  1 


THE  LAST. 


TIavviTTaTov  Srj,  KOiinOT  avOis  vcrTepov- 

Soph.  Ajax. 

I. 

It  is  the  lute,  the  same  poor  lute ; — 

Why  do  you  turn  away  ? 
To-morrow  let  its  chords  be  mute, 

But  they  must  sound  to-day. 
The  bark  is  manned,  the  seamen  throng 

Arocnd  the  creaking  mast : 
Lady,  you  heard  my  first  love-song, — 
Heai*  now  my  last ! 

II. 
Sigh  not! — I  knew  the  star  must  set, 

I  knew  the  rose  must  fade ; 
And  if  I  never  can  forget, 

I  never  will  upbraid : 


298  THE   LAST. 

I  would  not  have  jou  aught  but  glaiT, 

Where'er  my  lot  is  cast; 
And  if  my  sad  words  make  you  sad, 
They  are  the  last ! 

III. 
No  more,  no  more,  oh !  never  more 

Will  look  or  tone  of  mine 
Bring  clouds  that  ivory  forehead  o'er, 

Or  dim  that  dark  eye's  shine ; 
Look  out,  dear  Lady,  from  your  tower  ; 

The  wave  rolls  deep  and  vast: 
Oh,  would  to  God  this  bitter  hour 
Might  be  my  last ! 

IV. 

I  think  that  you  will  love  me  still. 
Though  far  our  fates  may  be ; 

And  that  your  heart  will  fondly  thrill 
When  strangers  ask  of  me ; 

My  praise  will  be  your  proudest  theme 
When  these  dark  days  are  past : 

If  this  be  all  an  idle  dream, 
It  is  my  last ! 

V. 

And  now  let  one  kind  look  be  nime, 
And  clasp  this  slender  chain ; 

Fill  up  once  more  the  cup  of  wine, 
Put  on  my  ring  again ; 


A   FAHEWELL.  209 

And  wreathe  this  wreath  around  your  head 

(Alas,  it  withers  fast!) 
And  wliisper,  when  its  flowers  are  dead, 
"It  was  the  last!" 

VI. 

Thus  from  your  presence  forth  I  go, 

A  lost  and  lonely  man ; 
Reckless  alike  of  weal  or  woe, 

Heaven's  benison  or  ban : 
He  who  has  known  the  tempest's  worst. 

May  bare  him  to  the  blast ; 
Blame  not  these  tears ;  they  are  the  first,— 
Are  they  the  last? 

'April  2, 1S29.) 


A  FAREWELL. 


Aurojca  S'  EvpwTnjs  ireSov, 
"Kireipov  i/fei?  'A(ji'5'.     ap  iifi-iv  SoKei 
b  Tuiv  deCiV  rvpavvof  eis  ra  TTai'9'  o/iuij 
)3i'atos  elvai; 

^scn.  Prom.  Vind. 

They  told  me  thou  wilt  pass  again 

Across  the  echoing  wave; 
And,  though  thou  canst  not  break  the  chain, 

Thou  wilt  forget  the  slave. 


300  A   FAKEWELL. 

Farewell,  farewell!— thou  wilt  not  knc^*' 
ily  hopes  or  fears,  mv  weal  or  woe, 

My  home— perhaps  my  grave  ! 
Nor  think  nor  dream  of  the  sad  heart 
Whose  only  thought  and  dream  thou  art. 

The  goblet  went  untasted  by, 

Which  other  lips  caressed  ; 
And  joyless  seemed  the  revelry, 

And  impotent  the  jest : 
And  why  ?  for  it  was  very  long 
Since  thou  didst  prize  my  love  or  song, 

My  lot  was  all  unblest : 
I  cannot  now  be  more  forlorn. 
For  bear  aught  that  I  have  not  borne. 

We  might  not  meet ;  for  me  no  more 

Arose  that  melting  tone  ; 
The  eyes  which  colder  crowds  adore, 

Were  veiled  to  me  alone  : 
The  coxcomb's  prate,  the  ruffian's  lies, 
The  censures  of  the  sternly  wise. 

Between  our  hearts  were  thrown  ; 
Deeper  and  wider  barriers  far, 
Than  any  waves  or  deserts  are. 

But  it  was  something  still  to  know 
Thy  dawn  and  dusk  were  mine, 

And  that  we  felt  the  same  breeze  blow, 
And  saw  the  same  star  shine : 


A  FAREWELL.  301 

A.nd  still  the  shadowy  hope  was  rifo 
That  once  in  this  waste  weary  life 
My  path  might  cross  with  thine, 
And  one  hrief  gleam  of  beauty  bless 
My  spirit's  ntter  loneliness. 

And  oft  in  crowds  I  might  rejoice 

To  hear  thy  uttered  name, 
Though  haply  from  an  unknown  voice 

The  welcome  echo  came : 
How  coldly  would  I  shape  reply, 
With  lingering  lip,  and  listless  eye, 

That  none  might  doubt  or  blame, 
Or  guess  that  idle  theme  could  be 
A  mine  of  after-thought  to  me  1 

Oh,  ne'er  again ! — thou  wilt  abide 

"Where  brighter  skies  are  found, 
One  whom  thou  lovest  by  thy  side. 

Many  who  love  thee  round ; 
And  those  sweet  fairies,  with  their  wiles 
Of  mimic  frowns  and  happy  smiles, 

Around  thy  steps  will  bound : 
I  would  not  cloud  such  scene  and  lot 
For  all  my  aching  breast  hath  not. 

Yet,  if  thou  wilt  remember  one 

Who  never  can  forget. 
Whose  lonely  life  is  not  so  lone 

As  if  we  had  not  met. 
Vol.  I.— 20 


302  A   FAKEWELL. 

Believe  that  in  the  frosty  sky 
Whereon  is  writ  his  destiny, 
Thy  light  is  lingering  yet, 
A  star  before  the  darkened  soul, 
To  guide,  and  gladden,  and  control. 

Be  mine  the  talk  of  men,  though  thon 

Wilt  never  hear  my  praise ; 
Be  mine  the  wreath,  though  for  my  brow 

Thon  wilt  not  twine  the  hays ; 
Be  mine  ambition's  proudest  scope. 
Though  fewer  smiles  than  were  my  hope 

Will  meet  my  longing  gaze. 
Though  in  my  triumph's  sunniest  thrill 
One  welcome  will  be  wanting  still. 

Perchance,  when  long,  long  years  are  o'er- 

I  care  not  how  they  flow — 
Some  note  of  me  to  that  far  shore 

Across  the  deep  may  go ; 
And  thou  wilt  read,  and  turn  to  hide 
The  conscious  blush  of  woman's  pride ; 

For  thou  alone  wilt  know 
What  spell  inspired  the  silent  toil 
Of  mid-day  sun  and  midnight  oil. 

And  this  is  little,  to  atone 

For  much  of  grief  and  wrong; 

For  doubts  within  the  bosom  sown. 
Cares  checked  and  cherished  long. 


AN    EXCUSE.  303 

But  it  is  past !  thy  bliss  or  pain 
I  shall  not  mar  or  make  again  ; 

And,  Lady,  this  poor  song 
Is  echoing,  like  a  stranger's  knell, 
Sad,  but  unheeded! — so  farewell! 


AN  EXCUSE. 


Blame  not  the  Minstrel's  wayward  will : 

His  soul  has  slumbered  all  too  long ; 
He  has  no  pulse  for  passion's  thrill, 

No  lute  for  passion's  song. 
Oh,  frown  not,  though  he  turns  away 

Unloved,  unloving,  even  from  thee, 
And  mars  with  idle  jests  the  lay 

"Where  Beauty's  praise  should  be. 

If  he  should  bid  the  golden  string 

Be  vocal  to  a  loftier  theme. 
Sad  Memory  from  her  cell  would  bring 

The  fond  forbidden  dream  ; 
The  dream  of  her,  whose  broken  chain 

Than  new-forged  bonds  is  far  more  dear  ; 
Whose  name  he  may  not  speak  again, 

And  shudders  but  to  hear. 


304  •  SECOISTD   LOVE. 

And  if  he  breathes  Love's  hopes  aud  fears 

In  many  a  soulless  idol's  shrine, 
The  falsehoods  fit  for  vulgar  ears 

Were  never  fit  for  thine. 
Take  back,  take  back  the  book  to-night: 

Thou  art  too  brightly — nobly  fair, 
For  hearts  so  worn  as  his  to  write 

Their  worthless  worship  there. 

(February  20,  18S0.) 


SECOND   LOYE. 

"L'on  D'jiime  bien  qii'une  seule  fois:  c'est  la  premiere.    Lee 
amours  qui  suivent  sont  raoins  involontaires  1" — La  Bruyem. 

How  shall  he  woo  her? — Let  him  stand 

Beside  her  as  she  sings, 
And  watch  that  fine  and  fairy  hand 

Flit  o'er  the  quivering  strings  : 
And  let  him  tell  her  he  has  heard, 

Though  sweet  the  music  flow, 
A  voice  whose  every  whispered  word 

Was  sweeter,  long  ago. 

How  shall  he  woo  her  ? — Let  him  gaze 
In  sad  and  silent  trance 


SECOND   LOVE.  305 

On  those  blue  eyes,  whose  liquid  rays 

Look  love  in  every  glance : 
And  let  him  tell  her,  eyes  more  bright, 

Though  bright  her  own  may  beam, 
Will  fling  a  deeper  spell  to-night 

Upon  him  in  his  dream. 

How  shall  he  woo  her? — Let  him  try 

The  charms  of  olden  time, 
And  swear  by  earth  and  sea  and  slcy. 

And  rave  in  prose  and  rhyme : 
And  let  him  tell  her,  when  he  bent 

His  knee  in  other  years. 
He  was  not  half  so  eloquent, — 

He  could  not  speak  for  tears ! 

How  shall  he  woo  her  ? — Let  him  bow 

Before  the  shrine  in  prayer ; 
And  bid  the  priest  pronounce  the  vow 

That  hallows  passion  there : 
And  let  him  tell  her,  when  she  parts 

From  his  unchidden  kiss, 
That  memory  to  many  hearts 

Is  dearer  far  than  bliss. 

Away,  away !  the  chords  are  mute, 

The  bond  is  rent  in  twain ; 
You  cannot  wake  that  silent  lute, 

Nor  clasp  those  links  again  ; 


306  A   KETROSPECT. 

Love's  toil,  I  knoTT,  is  little  cost, 

Love's  perjury  is  light  sin ; 
But  souls  that  lose  what  his  hath  lost, — 

Oh,  what  have  they  to  ■win  ? 


A   RETROSPECT. 

"  The  Lady  of  his  love,  oh,  she  was  changed. 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul  I" — Byron. 

"  Go  thon,  white  in  thy  sonl,  to  fill  a  throne 
Of  innocence  and  sanctity  in  Heaven." — Ford. 

I  ks:ew  that  it  must  be ! 
Yea,  thou  art  changed — all  worshipped  as  thou 
art — 
.ourned  as  thou  shalt  be !  sickness  of  the  heart 
Hath  done  its  work  on  thee ! 

Thy  dim  eyes  tell  a  tale — 
A  piteous  tale  of  vigils  ;  and  the  trace 
Of  bitter  tears  is  on  thy  beauteous  face, — 

Beauteous,  and  yet  so  pale. 

Changed  Love ! — but  not  alone ! 
I  am  not  what  they  think  me ;  though  my  cheek 
"Wear  but  its  last  year's  furrow,  though  I  speak 

Thus  in  my  natural  tone. 


A   EETEOSPECT.  30Y 

The  temple  of  my  youth 
"Was  strong  in  moral  purpose ;  once  I  felt 
The  glory  of  Philosophy,  and  knelt 

In  the  pure  shrine  of  Truth. 

I  went  into  the  storm, 
And  mocked  the  billows  of  the  tossing  sea : 
I  said  to  Fate,  "  "What  wilt  thou  do  to  me  ? 

I  have  not  harmed  a  worm !" 

Vainly  the  heart  is  steeled 
In  Wisdom's  armour;  let  her  burn  her  books! 
I  look  upon  them  as  the  soldier  looks 

Upon  his  cloven  shield. 

Virtue  and  Virtue's  rest — 
How  have  they  perished !  through  my  onward 

course 
Eepentance  dogs  my  footsteps :  black  Remorse 

Is  my  familiar  guest. 

The  glory  and  the  glow 
Of  the  world's  loveliness  have  passed  away; 
A.nd  Fate  hath  little  to  inflict  to-day, 

And  nothing  to  bestow. 

Is  not  the  damning  line 
Of  guilt  and  grief  engraven  on  me  now  ? 
ind  the  fierce  passion  which  hath  scathed  tliy 
brow — 

Hath  it  not  blasted  mine  ? 


308  A   EETKOSPEOT. 

No  matter !  I  will  turn 
To  the  straight  path  of  Duty;  I  have  wrought 
At  last  my  wayward  spirit  to  be"  taught 

"What  it  hath  yet  to  learn. 

Labour  shall  be  my  lot : 
My  kindred  shall  be  joyful  in  my  praise  ; 
And  Fame  shall  twiue  for  me  in  after-days 

A  wreath  I  covet  not : 

And,  if  I  cannot  make, 
Dearest,  thy  hope  my  hope,  thy  trust  my  trust, 
Yet  will  I  study  to  be  good  and  just 

And  blameless,  for  thy  sake. 

Thou  mayst  have  comfort  yet! 
Whate'er  the  source  from  which  those  waters 

glide, 
Thou  hast  found  healing  mercy  in  their  tide ; — 

Be  happy,  and  forget. 

Forget  me,  and  farewell ; 
But  say  not  that  in  me  new  hopes  and  fears, 
Or  absence,  or  the  lapse  of  gradual  years, 

Will  break  thy  memory's  spell : 

Indelibly,  within. 
All  I  have  lost  is  written ;  and  the  theme 
"Which  Silence  whispers  to  my  thought  and  dream 

Is  sorrow  still, — and  sin. 

(1831.) 


A.  BALLAD.  309 

A  BALLAD 

TEACinXG   HOW   POETRY   IS   BEST   PAID    FOU. 
"Non  voglio  cento  scudL" — Jtalian  Song. 

Ou,  say  not  that  the  minstrel's  art, 

The  glorious  gift  of  verse, 
Though  his  hopes   decay,    though   hiri   friend 
depart, 

Can  ever  be  a  curse  ; 
Though  sorrow  reign  within  his  heart. 

And  poortith  hold  his  purse 

Say  not  his  toil  is  profitless; 

Though  he  charm  no  rich  relation, 
The  Fairies  all  his  labours  bless 

"With  such  remuneration 
As  Mr.  Hume  would  soon  confess 

Beyond  his  calculation. 

Annuities  and  Tl«-ee  per  Cents., 

Little  cares  he  about  them; 
And  Indian  bonds,  and  tithes,  and  rentt!. 

He  rambles  on  without  them ; 
Bnt  love,  and  noble  sentiments. 

Oil  never  bid  him  doubt  them  ! — • 


310  A   BALLAD. 

Ohilde  Florice  rose  from  his  humble  bed 
And  prayed,  as  a  good  youth  should ; 

And  forth  he  sped,  with  a  hghtsome  tread, 
Into  the  neighbouring  wood ; 

He  knew  where  the  berries  were  ripe  and  red, 
And  where  the  old  oak  stood. 

And  as  he  lay  at  the  uoon  of  day 

Beneath  the  ancient  tree, 
A  gray -haired  pilgrim  passed  that  way ; 

A  holy  man  was  he. 
And  he  was  wending  forth  to  pray 

At  a  shrine  in  a  far  countrie. 


Oh,  his  was  a  weary  wandering. 

And  a  song  or  two  might  cheer  him. 

The  pious  Childe  began  to  sing, 

As  the  ancient  man  drew  near  him  ; 

The  lark  was  mute  as  he  touched  the  string. 
And  the  thrush  said,  "Hear  him,  hear  him  !" 

He  sang  high  tales  of  the  martyred  brave, 

Of  the  good,  and  pure,  and  just, 
Who  have  gone  into  the  silent  grave 

In  such  deep  faith  and  trust. 
That  the  hopes  and  thoughts  which  sain  and 
save 

Spring  from  their  buried  dust ; 


A   BALLAD.  311 

The  fair  of  face,  aud  the  stout  of  limb, 
Meek  maids  and  grandsires  hoary, 

"Who  have  sung  on  the  cross  tlieir  rapturous 
hymn, 
As  they  passed  to  their  doom  of  glory ; 

Their  radiant  fame  is  never  dim, 
Nor  their  names  erased  from  story. 

Time  spares  the  stone  where  sleep  the  dead 
"With  angels  watching  round  them  ; 

The  mourner's  grief  is  comforted 
As  he  looks  on  the  chains  that  bound  them ; 

And  peace  is  shed  on  the  murderer's  head. 
And  he  kisses  the  thorns  that  crowned  them. 

Such  tales  he  told  ;  and  the  pilgrim  heard 

In  a  trance  of  voiceless  pleasure ; 
For  the  depths  of  his  inmost  soul  were  stirred 

By  the  sad  and  solemn  measure  : 
"  I  give  thee  my  blessing,"  was  liis  word, 

"  It  is  all  I  have  of  treasure !" — 

A  little  child  came  bounding  by  ; 

And  he,  in  a  fragrant  bower. 
Had  found  a  gorgeous  butterfly, 

Rare  spoil  for  a  nursery  dower. 
Which  with  fierce  step  and  eager  eye 

He  chased  from  flower  to  flov/er. 


312  A   BALLAD. 

*'  Come  hither,  come  hither,"  'gan  Florice  call ; 

And  the  urchin  left  his  fun : 
So  from  the  hall  of  poor  Sir  Paul 

Retreats  the  baffled  dun ; 
So  Ellen  parts  from  the  village  ball. 

Where  she  leaves  a  heart  half  won. 

Then  Florice  did  the  child  caress, 

And  sang  his  sweetest  songs : 
Their  theme  was  of  the  gentleness 

"Which  to  the  sonl  belongs. 
Ere  yet  it  knows  the  name  or  dress 

Of  human  rights  and  wrongs ; — 

And  of  the  wants  which  make  agree 

All  parts  of  this  vast  plan ; 
How  life  is  in  whate'er  we  see. 

And  only  life  in  man ; 
"What  matter  where  the  less  may  be, 

And  where  the  longer  span  ? 

And  how  the  heart  grows  cold  without 

Soft  Pity's  freshening  dews ; 
And  how  when  any  life  goes  out 

Some  little  pang  ensues : — 
Facts  which  great  soldiers  often  doubt. 

And  wits  who  write  reviews. 

Oh,  song  hath  power  o'er  Nature's  springs, 
Though  deep  the  ISTymph  has  laid  them  I 


A    BALLAD.  313 

The  child  gazed — g.azed  on  gilded  wings 
As  the  next  light  breeze  displayed  thora ; 

But  he  felt  the  while  that  the  meanest  things 
Are  dear  to  Ilim  that  made  them! —  " 

The  snn  went  down  behind  the  hill, 

The  breeze  was  grov.-ing  colder ; 
But  there  the  Minstrel  lingered  still, 

And  amazed  the  chance  beholder. 
Musing  beside  a  rippling  rill 

With  a  harp  npon  his  shoulder. 

And  soon,  on  a  graceful  steed  and  tame, 

A  sleek  Arabian  mare, 
The  Lady  Juliana  came, 

Riding  to  take  the  air, 
With  many  a  lord  at  whose  proud  name 

A  Radical  would  swear. 

The  Minstrel  touched  his  lute  again ; 

It  was  more  than  a  Sultan's  crown, 
When  the  Lady  checked  her  bridle-rein 

And  lit  from  her  palfrey  down : — 
What  would  you  give  for  such  a  strain, 

Rees,  Longman,  Orme,  and  Brown? 

lie  sang  of  Beauty's  dazzling  eyes, 

Of  Beauty's  melting  tone, 
And  how  her  praise  is  a  richer  prize 

Than  t!ie  gems  of  Pei-sia's  throne, 


314  A   EALLAD, 

And  her  love  a  bliss  wliich  the  coldly  wise 
Have  never,  never  known._ 

,ja:e  told  how  the  valiant  scoff  at  Fear 
When  the  sob  of  her  grief  is  heard; 

How  fiercely  they  fight  for  a  smile  or  a  tear, 
How  they  die  for  a  single  word  : — 

Thmgs  which,  I  own,  to  me  appear 
Exceedingly  absurd. 

The  Lady  soon  had  heard  enough  ; 

She  turned  to  hear  Sir  Denys 
Discourse  in  language  vastly  gruff 

About  his  skill  at  tenuis ; 
"While  smooth  Sir  Guy  described  the  stuff 

His  mistress  wore  at  Venice. 

The  Lady  smiled  one  radiant  smile, 

And  the  Lady  rode  away. — 
There  is  not  a  lady  in  all  our  Isle, 

I  have  heard  a  poet  say, 
Who  can  listen  more  than  a  little  while 

To  a  poet's  sweetest  lay. — 

His  mother's  voice  was  fierce  and  shrill 

As  she  set  the  milk  and  fruit : 
"Out  on  thine  unrewarded  skill, 

And  on  thy  vagrant  lute ; 
Let  the  strings  be  broken  an  they  will, 

And  the  beggar  hps  be  mute:" 


A    BALLAD.  315 

Peace,  peace !   the  Pilgrim  as  he  went 

Forgot  the  Minstrel's  song, 
But  the  blessing  that  his  wan  lips  sent 

Will  guard  the  Minstrel  long, 
And  keep  his  spirit  innocent, 

And  turn  his  hand  from  wrong. 

Belike  tlie  child  had  little  thought 

Of  the  moral  the  Minstrel  drew  ; 
But  the  dream  of  a  deed  of  kindness  wrought— 

Brings  it  not  peace  to  you  ? 
And  doth  not  a  lesson  of  virtue  taught 

Teach  him  that  teaches  too  ? 

And  if  the  Lady  sighed  no  sigh 

For  the  Minstrel  or  his  hymn, — 
Yet  when  he  shall  lie  'neath  the  moonlit  sky 

Or  lip  the  goblet's  brim, 
What  a  star  in  the  mist  of  memory 

That  smile  will  be  to  him ! 

(1831.) 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Vol.  I.— 21 


STANZAS 

"WKITTEX   IX   THE   FIEST   LEAF    OF   I.ILLIAX. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  learned  dust, 

Of  reasoning  and  renown, 
Of  withering  wreath  and  crumbling  bust, 

Torn  book  and  tattered  gown ; 
Oh,  Wisdom  lives  in  Folly's  ring. 
And  beards,  thank  Heaven,  are  not  the  thing 

Then  let  me  live  a  long  romance. 

And  learn  to  trifle  well ; 
And  write  mv  motto,  "Vive  la  danse," 

And  "Vive  la  bagatelle!" 
And  give  all  honour,  as  is  fit. 
To  sparkling  eyes,  and  sparkling  wit. 

And  let  me  deem,  when  Sophs  condemn 

xVnd  Seniors  burn  my  lays, 
That  some  bright  eyes  will  smile  on  them. 

And  some  kind  hearts  will  praise; 
And  thus  my  little  book  shall  be 
A  mine  of  pleasant  thoughts  to  me. 

And  we,  perchance,  may  meet  no  more ; 
For  other  accents  sound 


320  STANZAS. 

And  darker  prospects  spread  before, 

And  colder  hearts  come  round ; 
And  cloistered  walk  and  grated  pane 
Must  wear  their  vroatcd  gloom  agaia. 

But  those  who  meet,  as  we  have  met, 

In  frolic  and  in  laughter, — 
Oh,  dream  not  they  can  e'er  forget 

The  thoughts  that  linger  after ; 
That  parted  friend  and  faded  scene 
Can  be  as  if  they  ne'er  had  been. 

No!  I  shall  miss  tbtit  merry  smilo 

When  thou  hast  left  me  lone ; 
And  listen  in  the  silent  aisle 

For  that  remembered  tone ; 
And  look  up  to  the  lattice  high 
For  beckoning  hand  and  beaming  eye. 

And  thou,  perhaps,  when  years  are  gone, 

"Wilt  turn  these  pages  over. 
And  waste  one  idle  thought  upon 

A  rambling,  rhyming  rover, 
And  deem  the  Poet  and  his  line 
Both  wild,  both  worthless, — and  both  thine! 

(Tbin.  Coll.,  Cambriugk, 


STANZAS.  321 


STANZAS 

■WEITTEX  IX  A  COPY  OF  LILLIAN,  SEXT  TO  A  LADY 
IX  EXOUAXGE  FOR  TWO  DRAWINGS  II.IXSTRA- 
TITE   OF   THE   POEM. 

The  gifts  the  Rliymer  begs  to-day 

Shall  long  be  dear  to  him, 
"When  Passion's  glow  shall  pass  awar, 

And  Fancy's  light  grow  dim, 
And  naught  remain  of  boyhood's  schemes, 
But  Sorrow's  tears,  and  Memory's  drearna. 

Yes,  dear  the  gifts  shall  ever  be ; 

For  Humour  there  hath  flung 
A  spell  of  magic  witchery 

On  all  he  thought  and  sung, 
And  blended  in  a  living  dance 
The  creatures  of  his  own  romance. 

E'en  he  might  shudder  at  the  sight 

Of  his  own  monster's  feast ; 
E'en  he  might  feel  a  sweet  affright, 

As,  ruling  the  rude  beast, 
His  own  fair  damsel  skims  the  sea 
In  all  her  headless  ecstasy. 


332  STANZAS. 

These  gifts  sLall  be  unfading  signs 

That  in  his  early  days, 
Some  beaming  eyes  could  read  his  lines, 

Some  beauteous  lips  could  praise ; 
Fair  Lady,  from  the  cup  of  bliss 
He  wants  and  wishes  only  this ! 

For  he  was  born  a  w^ayward  boy, 
To  laugh  when  hopes  deceive  him, 

To  grasp  at  every  fleeting  joy, 
And  jest  at  all  that  leave  him ; 

To  love  a  quirk,  and  loathe  a  quarrel, 

And  never  care  a  straw  for  laurel. 

And  thus,  the  creature  of  a  day, 
And  rather  fool  than  knave, 

And  either  very  gravely  gay 
Or  very  gayly  grave, 

He  cares  for  naught  but  wit  and  wine, 

And  flatteries, — such  as  this  of  thine ! 


FEAGMENTS    OF   DESCRIPTIVE   POEM.       323 


FRAGMENTS    OF    A    DESCRIPTIVE 
POEM* 

*  *  *  And  now 

He  stood  upon  the  beetling  brow 

Of  a  huge  cliff,  and  marked  beneath 

The  sea-foam  fling  its  hoary  wreath 

Upon  the  shore,  and  heard  the  waves 

Run  howling  through  their  hollow  caves. 

Far  on  the  right  old  Ocean  lay ; 

But  he  had  hushed  his  storm  to-day, 

And  seemed  to  murmur  a  long  sigh, 

A  melancholy  melodj-. 

As  if  his  mourning  had  begun 

For  wliat  he  yesternight  had  done: 

And  on  the  left,  in  beauteous  pride. 

The  river  poured  his  rushing  tide ; 

Fanned,  as  he  came,  by  odorous  gales 

From  grassy  hills  and  mossy  vales, 

And  gardens,  where  young  ISTature  set 

Ko  mask  upon  her  features  yet. 

And  sands  which  were  as  smooth  as  stone. 

And  woods  whose  birth  no  eye  had  known, 

*  These  lines  were  sent  in  a  letter,  "insteiid  of  a  Valentine." 
The  view  described  is  that,  from  the  IJess,  looking  towards 
Teignmouth.  Devon. 


324      FRAGMENTS    OF   DESCEIPTIVE   I'OEM. 

And  rocks,  whose  verv  crags  seemed  bowers, 
So  bright  tliey  were  with  herbs  and  flowers. 

Ke  looked  across  the  river-stream ; 

A  little  town  was  there, 
O'er  which  the  morning's  earliest  beam 

"Was  wandering  fresh  and  fair ; 
No  architect  of  classic  school 
Had  pondered  there  witli  line  and  rule; 
And,  stranger  still,  no  modern  master 
Had  wasted  there  his  lath  and  plaster ; 
The  buildings  in  strange  order  lay, 
As  if  the  streets  had  lost  their  way, 
Fantastic,  puzzling,  narrow,  muddy. 
Excess  of  toil  from  lack  of  study, 
Where  Fashion's  very  newest  fangles 
Had  no  conception  of  right  angles. 
But  stiU  about  that  humble  place 
There  was  a  look  of  rustic  grace  ; 
'Twas  sweet  to  see  the  sports  and  labours, 
And  morning  greetings  of  good  neighbours. 
The  seamen  mending  sails  and  oars, 
The  matrons  knitting  at  the  doors. 
The  invalids  enjoying  dips, 
The  children  launching  tiny  ships, 
The  beldames  clothed  in  rags  and  wrinkles, 
Investigating  periwinkles. 
A  little  farther  up  the  tide, 
There  beamed  upon  the  river-side 


FRAGMENTS  OF  DESCEIPTIVE    POEM.       325 

A  shady  dwelling-place :       *  * 

Most  beautiful !  Qpon  that  spot, 

Beside  that  echoing  wave, 
A  Fairy  miglit  have  built  her  grot, 

An  Anchorite  his  grave. 
The  river,  with  its  con.stant  full, 
Came  daily  to  the  garden-wall. 
As  if  it  longed,  but  thought  it  sin, 
To  look  upon  the  charms  within; 
Behind,  majestic  mountains  frowned, 
And  dark,  rich  groves  were  all  around, 
And  just  before  the  gate  there  stood 
Two  trees,  wldch  were  themselves  a  wood  ; 
Two  lovely  trees,  whose  clasping  forms 
"Were  blended  still  in  calms  and  storms — 
Like  sisters  who  have  lived  together 
Through  every  change  of  Fortune's  weath'-r, 
United  in  their  bliss  or  sorrow, 
Their  yesterday,  and  their  to-morrow, — 
So  fond,  so  faithful, — you  would  wonder 
To  see  them  smile  or  weep  asunder. 

(March,  1S26.) 


>'2Q  A    PREFACE, 


A   PREFACE. 

I  HAVE  a  tale  of  Love  to  tell; — 
Lead  me  thy  liglit  lute,  L.  E.  L. 

Lend  me  thy  lute  !  what  other  strings 

Should  speak  of  those  delicious  things, 

Which  constitute  Love's  joys  and  woes 

In  pretty  duodecimos? 

Thou  knowest  every  herb  and  flower, 

Of  wondrous  name,  and  wondrous  power, 

Which,  gathered  where  white  wood-doves  nestlej 

And  beat  up  by  poetic  pestle, 

Bind  gallant  knights  in  fancied  fetters. 

And  set  young  ladies  writing  letters  : 

Thou  singest  songs  of  floods  and  fountains, 

Of  mounted  lords  and  lordly  mountains. 

Of  dazzling  shields  and  dazzling  glances, 

Of  piercing  frowns  and  piercing  lances, 

Of  leaping  brands  and  sweeping  willows. 

Of  dreading  seas  and  dreaming  billows, 

Of  sunbeams  which  are  like  red  wiue, 

Of  odorous  lamps  of  argentine. 

Of  cheeks  that  burn,  of  hearts  that  freeze, 

Of  odours  that  send  messages, 


A   PREFACE.  327 

Of  kingfishers  and  silver  pheasants, 

Of  gems  to  -which  the  Sun  makes  presents, 

Of  miniver  and  tiuieworn  walls, 

Of  clairschachs  and  of  atabals. 

Within  thy  passion-haunted  pages 

Throng  forward  girls — and  distant  ages, 

The  lifeless  learns  at  once  to  live, 

The  dumb  grows  strangely  talkative, 

Resemblances  begin  to  strike 

In  things  exceedingly  unlike. 

All  nouns,  like  statesmen,  suit  all  places, 

And  verbs,  turned  lawyers,  hunt  for  cases. 

Oh !  if  it  be  a  crime  to  languish 

Over  thy  scenes  of  bliss  or  anguish. 

To  float  Avitli  Raymond  o'er  the  sesv. 

To  sigh  with  dark-eyed  Rosalie, 

And  sit  in  revery  luxurious 

Till  tea  grows  cold,  and  aunts  grow  furious, 

T  own  the  soft  irapeachraeni  true, 

And  burn  the  Westminster  Review. 

Lend  me  thy  lute ;  I'll  be  a  poet ; 

All  Paternoster  Row  shall  know  it ! 

I'll  rail  in  rhyme  at  cruel  Fate 

From  Temple  Bar  to  Tyburn  Gate ; 

Old  Premium's  daughter  in  the  City 

Shall  feel  that  love  is  kin  to  pity, 

Hot  ensigns  shall  be  glad  to  borrow 

My  notes  of  rapture  and  of  sorrow, 


328  A   PREFACE. 

And  I  shall  hear  sweet  voices  sighing, 
"So  young ! — and  I  am  told  he's  dying!" 
Yes!  I  shall  wear  a  wreath  eternal, 
For  full  twelve  months,  in  Post  and  Journal, 
Admired  by  all  the  Misses  Brown 
"Who  go  to  school  at  Kentish  Town, 
And  worshipped  by  the  fair  Arachne 
Who  makes  ray  handkerchiefs  at  Hackney  I 

Vain,  vain ! — take  back  the  lute !     I  see 

Its  chords  were  never  meant  for  me. 

For  thine  own  song,  for  thine  own  hand, 

That  lute  was  strung  in  Fairy-land ; 

And,  if  a  stranger's  thumb  should  fling 

Its  rude  touch  o'er  one  golder;  string, — 

Good-night  to  all  the  music  in  it  I 

The  string  would  crack  in  half  a  minute. 

Take  back  the  lute!  I  make  no  claim 

To  inspiration  or  to  fame ; 

The  hopes  and  fears  that  bards  should  cherish, 

I  care  not  when  they  fade  and  perish  ; 

I  read  political  economy, 

Voltaire  and  Cobbett,  and  gastronomy, 

And,  when  I  would  indite  a  story 

Of  woman's  faith  or  warrior's  glory, 

I  always  wear  a  night-cap  sable. 

And  put  my  elbows  on  the  table, 

And  hammer  out  the  tedious  toil 

By  dint  of  Walker  and  lamp-oil. 


LOVE    AT    A    ROUT.  329 

I  never  feel  poetic  mania, 

I  gnaw  no  laurel  with  Urania, 

I  court  no  critic's  tender  mercies, 

I  count  the  feet  in  all  my  versos, 

And  own  myself  a  screaming  gander 

Among  the  shrill  swans  of  Mseauder! 


(1S24.) 


LOVE   AT  A  ROUT. 

When  some  mad  bard  sits  down  to  muse 

About  the  lilies  and  the  dews, 

The  grassy  vales  and  sloping  lawns, 

Fairies  and  Satyrs,  ISTymphs  and  Fauns, 

He's  apt  to  think,  he's  apt  to  swear. 

That  Cupid  reigns  not  anywhere 

Except  in  some  sequestered  village 

Where  peasants  live  on  truth  and  tillage; 

'J'hut  none  are  fair  enough  for  witches 

But  maids  who  frisk  through  dells  and  ditches; 

That  dreams  are  twice  as  sweet  as  dances, 

That  cities  never  breed  romances  ; 

That  Beauty  always  keeps  a  cottage. 

And  Purity  gi-ows  pale  on  pottage. 


330  LOVE   AT   A   EOTTT. 

Yes  !  those  dear  dreams  are  all  divine ; 

And  those  dear  dreams  have  all  been  mine. 

I  like  the  stream,  the  rock,  the  bay, 

I  like  the  smell  of  new-mown  hay, 

I  like  the  babbling  of  the  brooks, 

I  like  the  creaking  of  the  crooks, 

I  like  the  peaches  and  the  posies, — 

But  chiefly,  when  the  season  closes, 

And  often,  in  the  month  of  fun, 

When  every  poacher  cleans  his  gun, 

And  cockneys  tell  enormous  lies. 

And  stocks  are  pretty  sure  to  rise. 

And  e'en  the  Chancellor,  they  say, 

Goes  to  a  point  the  nearest  way — 

I  hurry  from  my  drowsy  desk 

To  revel  in  the  picturesque  ; 

To  hear  beneath  those  ancient  trees 

The  far-oif  murmur  of  the  bees, 

Or  trace  yon  river's  mazy  channels 

With  Petrarch,  and  a  brace  of  spaniels. 

Combining  foolish  rhymes  together, 

And  killing  sorrow,  and  shoe-leather. 

Then,  as  I  see  some  rural  maid 
Come  dancing  up  the  sunny  glade. 
Coquetting  Avith  her  foud  adorer 
Just  as  her  mother  did  before  her, 
"  Give  me,"  I  cry,  "  the  quiet  bliss 
Of  souls  like  these,  of  scenes  like  this ; 


LOVE    AT   A   EOUT.  331 

"Wlierc  ladies  eat  and  sleep  in  peace, 
T\'herc  gallants  never  heard  of  Greece, 
Where  day  is  day,  and  night  is  night, 
Where  frocks — and  morals — both  are  white; 
r«lne  eyes  below — blue  skies  above — 
These  arc  the  homes,  the  hearts,  for  Love  !" 

r.nt  this  is  idle  ;  I  have  been 

A  sojourner  in  many  a  scene, 

And  picked  up  wisdom  in  my  way, 

And  cared  not  what  I  had  to  pay; 

Smiling  and  weeping  all  the  while, 

As  other  people  weep  and  smile ; 

And  I  have  learned  that  Love  is  not 

Confined  to  any  hour  or  spot ; 

He  lights  the  smile  and  fires  the  frown 

Alike  in  country  and  in  town. 

I  own  fair  faces  not  more  fair 

In  Ettrick,  than  in  Portman  Square, 

And  silly  danglers  just  as  silly 

In  Sherwood,  as  in  Piccadilly. 

Soft  tones  are  not  the  worse,  no  doubt, 

For  having  harps  to  help  them  out; 

And  smiles  are  not  a  ray  more  bright 

By  moonbeams,  than  by  candle-light ; 

I  know  much  magic  oft  reposes 

On  wreaths  of  artificial  roses, 

And  snowy  necks, — I  never  found  them 

Quite  spoilt  by  having  cameos  round  them. 


332  THE    MODERN   NECTAR. 

In  short,  I'm  very  sure  fhat  all 

Who  seek  or  sigh  for  Beauty's  thrall 

May  breathe  their  vows,  and  feed  their  passion. 

Though  vi'hist  and  waltzing  keep  in  fashion, 

And  make  tlie  most  delicious  sonnets, 

Til  spite  of  diamonds,  and  French  bonnets ! 

(1824.) 


THE  MODERN  NECTAR. 

OxE  day,  as  Bacchus  wandered  out 

From  his  own  gay  and  glorious  heaven, 
To  see  what  mortals  were  about 

Below,  'twixt  six  o'clock  and  seven, 
And  laugh  at  all  the  toils  and  tears, 
The  endless  hopes,  the  causeless  fears, 
.The  midnight  songs,  the  morning  smarts, 
The  aching  heads,  the  breaking  hearts, 
Which  he  and  his  fair  crony  Venus 
Within  the  month  had  sown  between  us, 
He  lighted  by  chance  on  a  fiddling  fellow 
Who  never  was  known  to  be  less  than  mellow, 
A  wandering  poet,  who  thought  it  his  duty 
To  feed  upon  nothing  but  bowls  and  beauty  ; 
Who  worshipped  a  rhyme,  and  detested  a  quari'el, 
And  cared  not  a  single  straw  for  laurel, 


THE   MODEEN   KECTAJl.  066 

Holding  that  Grief  was  Sobriety's  dangliter, 
And  loathing  critics,  and  cold  water.     • 

Ere  day  on  the  Gog-Magog  hills  had  fainted, 

The  god  and  the  minstrel  were  quite  acquainted ; 

Beneath  a  tree,  in  the  sunny  weather, 

They  sat  them  down,  and  drank  together : 

Tliey  drank  of  all  fluids  that  ever  were  poured 

By  an  English  lout,  or  a  German  lord, 

Bum  and  shrub  and  brandy  and  gin, 

One  after  another,  they  stowed  them  in. 

Claret  of  Carbonell,  porter  of  Meux, 

Champagne  which  would  waken  a  wit  in  dukes. 

Humble  Port,  and  proud  Tokay, 

Persico,  and  Creme  de  The, 

The  blundering  Irishman's  Usquebaugh, 

The  fiery  "Welshman's  Cwrw  da; 

And  after  toasting  various  names 

Of  mortal  and  immortal  flames. 

And  whispering  more  than  I  or  you  know 

Of  Mistress  Poll,  and  Mistress  Juno, 

The  god  departed,  scarcely  knowing 

A  zephyr's  from  a  nose's  blowing, 

A  frigate  from  a  pewter  flagon. 

Or  Thespis  from  his  own  stage-wagon  ; 

And  rolling  about  like  a  barrel  of  grog, 

lie  went  up  to  heaven  as  drunk  as  a  hog ! 

"  Xow  may  I,"  he  lisped,  "  forever  sit 
In  Lethe's  darkest  and  deepest  pit 
"\'0L.  I.— 22 


334  THE   MODERN   IfECTAE. 

Where  dulness  everlasting  reigns 
O'er  the- quiet  pulse  and  tlie  drowsy  brains, 
Where  ladies  jest,  and  lovers  laugh, 
And  noble  lords  are  bound  in  calf, 
And  Zoilus  for  his  sins  rehearses 
Old  Bentham's  prose,  old  Wordsworth's  verses, 
If  I  have  not  found  a  richer  draught 
Than  ever  yet  Olympus  quaffed, 
Better  and  brighter  and  dearer  far 
' Than  the  golden  sands  of  Pactolus  are!" 

And  then  he  filled  in  triumph  up. 

To  the  highest  top-sparkle,  Jove's  beaming  cup, 

And  pulling  up  his  silver  hose, 

And  turning  in  his  tottering  toes 

(While  Hebe,  as  usual,  the  mischievous  gypsy 

Was  laughing  to  see  her  brother  tipsy), 

He  said — "  Mnj  it  please  your  high  Divinity, 

This  nectar  is — Milk-Punch  at  Trinity!" 

(1525.) 


MY    OWN   FUKEKAL.  335 


MY  OWN  FUNERAL. 

FKOII   DE   BERANGEE. 

This  morning,  as  in  bed  I  lay, 

Half  waking  and  half  sleej^ing, 
A  score  of  Loves,  immensely  gay, 

Were  round  my  chamber  creeping ; 
I  could  not  move  my  hand  or  head     ■ 

To  ask  them  what  the  stir  meant; 
And  "Ah,"  they  cried,  "our  friend  is  dead; 

Prepare  for  his  interment !" 

All  whose  hearts  v/ith  mine  were  blended, 
"Weep  for  me !  my  days  are  ended  ! 

One  drinks  my  brightest  Burgundy, 

"Without  a  blush,  before  me ; 
One  brings  a  little  rosary. 

And  breathes  a  blessing  o'er  me ; 
One  finds  my  pretty  chambermaid, 

And  courts  her  in  dumb  crambo ; 
Another  sees  tlie  mutes  arrayed 

"With  fife  by  way  of  flambeau : 
In  your  feasting  and  your  feting, 
Weep  for  me!  my  hoarse  is  waiting. 


336  MT    OWN   FUXEEAL. 

"Was  ever  such  a  strange  array  ? 

The  mourners  all  are  singing;    , 
From  all  the  churches  on  our  way 

A  merry  peal  is  ringing; 
The  pall  that  clothes  my  cold  remains, 

Instead  of  hoars  and  dragons, 
Is  blazoned  o'er  with  darts  and  chains, 

With  lutes,  and  flowers,  and  flagons : 
Passers-by  their  heads  are  shaking ! 
"Weep  for  me !  my  grave  is  making. 

And  now  they  let  my  coflBn  fall; 

And  one  of  them  rehearses, 
For  want  of  holy  ritual, 

My  own  least  holy  verses : 
The  sculptor  carves  a  laurel-leaf, 

And  writes  my  name  and  story ; 
And  silent  Nature  in  her  grief 

Seems  dreaming  of  my  glory  : 
Just  as  I  am  made  immortal, — 
Weep  for  me ! — they  bar  the  portal. 

But  Isabel,  by  accident, 

Was  wandering  by  that  minute ; 
She  opened  that  dark  monument, 

And  found  her  slave  within  it ; 
The  clergy  said  the  Mass  in  vain, 

The  College  could  not  save  me ; 


time's  song.  337 

But  life,  she  swears,  returned  again 
With  the  first  kiss  she  gave  me: 
You  who  deem  that  life  is  sorrow. 
Weep  for  me  again  to-morrow ! 

a826.) 


TIME'S  SONG. 


O'er  the  level  plains,  where  mountains  greet  me 

as  I  go, 
O'er  the  desert  waste,  where  fountains  at  my 

bidding  flow, 
On  the  boundless  beam  by  day,  on  tlie  cloud  by 

night, 
I  am  riding  hence  away:  who  will  chain  ray 

flight? 

War   his  weary  watch    was   keeping, — I   ha\'e 

crushed  his  spear; 
Grief  within  her  bower  was  weeping, — I  have 

dried  her  tear ; 
Pleasure  caught  a  minute's  hold, — then  T  harried 

by, 

Leaving  all  her  banquet  cold,  and  her  goblet 
dry. 


338  FEOil   METASTASIO. 

Power  had  won  a  throne  of  glory :  -n'here  ia 

now  his  fame? 
Genius  said,  "I  live  in  story:"  who  hath  heard 

his  name  ? 
Love  beneath  a  myrtle-bough  whispered,  "  Why 

so  fast?" 
And  the' roses  on  his  brow  withered  as  I  passed. 

I  have  heard  the  heifer  lowing  o'er  the  wild 

wave's  bed; 
I  have  seen  the  billow  flowing  where  the  cattle 

fed; 
Where  began  my  wanderings  ?    Memory  will  not 

say ! 
Whei'e  will  rest  my  weary  wings  ?     Science  turna 

away! 

(1S26.) 


FROM  METASTASIO. 

The  venomous  serpent,  dearest, 
Shall  couch  with  the  cushat  dove, 

Ere  a  true  friend,  as  thou  fearest, 
Shall  ever  be  false  in  love. 


BEFORE    A   COLLEGE   EXAMINATION.       339 

From  Eden's  greenest  mountain 
Two  separate  streamlets  came ; 

But  their  source  was  in  one  fountain, 
Their  waters  are  the  same  I 

(May  21,  1826.) 


LINES 

WIJITTEX  ON  THE  EVE  OF  A  COLLEGE  EXAMINATION, 
I. 

St.  Mart's  tolls  her  longest  chime,  and  slumber 

softly  falls 
On  Granta's  quiet  solitudes,  her  cloisters    and 

her  halls ; 
But  trust  me,  little  rest  is  theirs,  who  play  in 

glory's  game, 
And   throw   to-morrow    tlicir    last    throw   for 

academic  fame ; 
Whose  hearts  have  panted  for  this  hour,  and, 

while  slow  months  went  by, 
Beat  high  to  live  in  story — half  a  dozen  stories 

hiirh. 


340      BEFOEE   A   COLLEGE    EXAMINATION. 


No ;  there  is  no  repose  for  them,  the  solitary  few, 

Who  muse  on  all  that  they  have  done,  and  all 
they  meant  to  do ; 

And  leave  the  prisoned  loveliness  of  some  hope- 
haunted  book, 

With   many  a  melancholy  sigh,   and  many  aa 
anxious  look ; 

As  lovers  look  their  last  upon  the  Lady  of  their 
fancies, 

When  barb  or  bark  is  waiting,  in  the  middle  of 
romances. 

m. 

And  some  were  born  to  be  the  first,  and  some 

to  be  the  last : — 
I  cannot  change  the  future   now ;  I   will   not 

mourn  the  past ; 
But  while  the  firelight  flickers,  and  the  lonely 

lamp  burns  dim, 
ril  fill  one  glass  of  Claret  till  it  sparkles  to  the 

brim, 
And,  like  a  knight  of  chivalry  first  vaulting  on 

his  steed,  ' 
Commend  me  to  my  Patron  Saint,  for  a  blessing 

and  good  speed ! — 

IT. 

0  Lady  !  if  my  pulse  beats  quick,  and  my  lieart 
trembles  now, 


I5i:F0EE    A   COLLEGE    EXAMINATION.       341 

If  there  is  flush  upon  my  cheek,  and  fever  on 
my  brow, 

It  is  not.  Lady,  that  I  think,  as  others  tliink  to- 
night, 

Upon  the  struggle  and  the  prize,  tlie  doubt  and 
the  delight. 

Nor  that  I  feel,  as  I  have  felt,  ambition's  idle 
thrill, 

Nor  that  defeat,  so  bitter  once,  is  bitter  to  nie 
still : 

T, 

I  think  of  thee !  I  think  of  thee !     It  is  but  for 

thy  sake 
That  wearied  energies   arise,    and   slumbering 

hopes  awake ; 
For  others  other  smiles  might  beam,  so  only  one 

were  mine ; 
For  others  other  praise  might  sound,  so  I  were 

worthy  thine ; 
On  other  brows  the  Avreath  might  bloom,  but  it 

were  more  than  bliss 
To  fling  it  at  thy  feet,  and  say,  "Thy  friendship 

hath  done  this." 

VI. 

Whate'er  of  chastened  pride  is  mine,  whate'er 

of  nurtured  power, 
Of  self-restraint  when  suns -invite,  of  faith  when 

tempests  lower, 


S42      BEFOEE    A    COLLEGE    EXAinNATIOX. 

"Whate'er  of  morning  joy  I  have,  whate'er  of 

evening  rest, 
Whate'er  of  love  I  yet  deserve  from  those  I  love 

the  best, 
Whate'er  of  honest  fame  upon  my  after-life  may 

be, — 
To  thee,  my  best  and  fairest, — I  shall  owe  it  all 

to  thee! 

VII, 

I  am  alone — I  am  alone!  thou  art  not  by  my 

side. 
To  smile  on  me,  to  speak  to  me,  to  flatter  or  to 

chide ; 
But  oh !  if  Fortune  favour  now  the  effort  and  the 

prayer. 
My  heart  will  strive,  when  friends  come  round, 

to  fancy  thou  art  there  ; 
To  hear  in  every  kindly  voice  an  echo  of  thy 

tone, 
And  clasp  in  every  proffered  hand  the  pressure 

of  thy  own. 

VIII. 

As  those  who  shed  in  Fairy-land  their  child- 
hood's happy  tears 

Have  still  its  trees  before  their  sight,  its  musio 
in  their  ears, 

Thus,  midst  the  cold  realities  of  this  soul-weary- 
ing scene, 


BEFORE   A   COLLEGE   EXAMINATION.       343 

My  heart  will  shrink  fi-om  that  which  is,  to  that 

which  once  hath  heen ; 
Till  common  haunts,  where  strangers  meet  to 

sorrow  or  rejoice, 
Grow  radiant  with  thy  loveliness,  and  vocal  with 

thy  voice. 

IX. 

My  sister ! — for  no  sister  can  be  dearer  than  then 

art — 
My  sister ! — for  thon  hadst  to  me  indeed  a  sister's 

heart, — 
Our  paths  are  all  divided  now,  but  believe  that 

I  obey, 
And  tell  me  thou  beholdest  what  I  bid  thee  not 

repay : 
The  star  in  heaven  looks  brightest  down  upon 

the  watery  tide : 
It  may  not  warm  the  mariner, — dear  Lady,  let 

it  guide  1 


344:         ALEXAJSfDER   AND    DIOGENES. 


ALEXANDER  AND   DIOGENES. 

"Diogenes  Alexandro  roganti  nt  diceret  si  quid  opus  e.sscU 
'nnnc  Quidem  paullulum,'  inquit,  'a  sole.'" — Cicero,  Ta»e 
Disp. 

I. 
Slowly  the  monarch  turned  aside: 
But  when  his  glance  of  youthful  pride 
Rested  upon  the  warriors  gray 
"Who  bore  his  lance  and  shield  that  day, 
And  the  long  line  of  spears,  that  came 
Through  the  far  grove  like  waves  of  tiaiiic, 
His  forehead  burned,  his  pulse  beat  high, 
More  darkly  flashed  his  shifting  eye, 
And  visions  of  the  battle-plain 
Came  bursting  on  his  soul  again. 

n. 

The  old  man  drew  his  gaze  away 

Eight  gladly  from  that  long  array, 

As  if  their  presence  were  a  blight 

Of  pain  and  sickness  to  his  sight; 

And  slowly  folding  o'er  his  breast 

The  fragments  of  his  tattered  vest. 

As  was  his  wont,  unasked,  unsought. 

Gave  to  the  winds  his  muttered  thouL':ht, 
Naming  no  name  of  friend  or  foe, 
And  reckless  if  they  heard  or  no. 


ALEXANDEE   AND   moGENES.         345 

III. 

"  Ay,  go  thy  way,  thou  painted  thing, 
Puppet,  which  mortals  call  a  King, 
Adorning  thee  with  idle  gems, 
With  drapery  and  diadems, 
And  scarcely  guessing,  that  beneath 
The  purple  robe  and  laurel  wreatli, 
There's  nothing  but  the  common  slime 
Of  human  clay  and  human  crime  I — 
My  rags  ai-e  not  so  rich, — but  they 
Will  serve  as  well  to  cloak  decay. 

IT. 

"  And  ever  round  thy  jewelled  brow 
False  slaves  and  falser  friends  will  bow  : 
And  Flattery, — as  varnish  flings 
A  baseness  on  the  brightest  things, — 
Will  make  the  monarch's  deeds  appear 
All  worthless  to  the  monarch's  ear. 
Till  thou  wilt  turn  and  think  that  fame 
So  vilely  dressed,  is  worse  than  shame ! — 

The  gods  be  thanked  for  all  their  mercies, 
Diogenes  hears  naught  but  curses. 

V. 

"And  thou  wilt  ban(piet! — air  and  sea 
Will  render  up  their  hoards  for  thee; 
And  golden  cups  for  thee  will  hold 
Rich  nectar,  richer  than  the  gold. — 


S-iG         ALEXAJSTDER   AND   DIOGENES. 

The  cunning  caterer  still  must  share 

The  dainties  which  his  toils  prepare ; 

The  page's  lip  must  taste  the  wine 

Before  he  fills  the  cup  for  thine : 

Wilt  feast  with  me  on  Hecate's  cheer  I 
I  dread  no  royal  hemlock  here ! 

YI. 

"  And  night  will  come  ;  and  thou  wilt  lie 

Beneath  a  purple  canopy, 

"With  lutes  to  lull  thee,  flowers  to  shed 

Their  feverish  fragrance  round  thy  bed, 

A  princess  to  unclasp  thy  crest, 

A  Spartan  spear  to  guard  thy  rest. — 

Dream,  happy  one ! — thy  dreams  will  be 

Of  danger  and  of  perfidy, — 

The  Persian  lanc«,  the  Carian  club ! — 
I  shall  sleep  sounder  in  my  tub. 

VII. 

"  And  thou  wilt  pass  away,  and  have 

A  marble  mountain  o'er  thy  grave, 

"With  pillars  tall,  and  chambers  vast, — 

Fit  palace  for  the  worm's  repast ! 

I  too  shall  perish !  let  them  call 

The  vulture  to  my  funeral ; 

The  Cynic's  staft',  the  Cynic's  den. 

Are  all  he  leaves  his  fellow-men  ; 

Heedless  how  this  corruption  fares, — 
Yea,  heedless,  though  it  mis  with  theirs. 

(1S26.) 


AKMINIUS. 


ARMINIUS* 

"Cernebatur  contra  minitabundus   Arminius,  prailimnqua 
denuntians". — Taoit.  Aunal.  ii.  10. 

I. 

Bacx, — back! — he  fears  not  foaming  flood 

Who  fears  not  steel-clad  line ! 
No  offspring  this  of  German  blood, — 

No  brother  thou  of  mine ; 
Some  bastard  spawn  of  menial  birth, — 

Some  bound  and  bartered  slave  : 
Back, — back ! — for  thee  our  native  earth 

Would  be  a  foreign  grave! 


Away !  be  mingled  with  the  rest 

Of  that  thy  chosen  tribe  ; 
And  do  the  tyrant's  high  behest, 

And  earn  the  robber's  bribe ; 

*  ArminiuB,  the  assertor  of  the  liberties  of  Germany,  had  a 
brother  who  had  been  brouglit  up  and  had  risen  to  high  rank 
in  the  Roman  service.  Upon  one  occasion,  when  the  two 
armies  were  separated  by  the  river  Wesor,  the  brothers,  after 
a  colloquy  which  ended  in  reciprocal  reproaches,  were  scarcely 
prevented,  says  Tacitus,  fronv  rushing  into  the  stream  and  en- 
gaging hand  to  hand. 


34S  AEMINITJS. 

And  win  the  chain  to  gird  the  neck, 

The  gems  to  hide  the  hilt, 
And  blazon  honour's  hapless  wreck 

With  all  the  gauds  of  guilt. 

in. 
And  wouldst  thou  have  me  share  the  prej  ? 

By  all  that  I  have  done. 
By  Yarus'  bones,  which  day  by  day 

Are  whitening  in  the  sun, — 
The  legion's  shattered  panoply, 

The  eagle's  broken  wing, 
I  would  not  be,  for  earth  and  sky, 

So  loathed  and  scorned  a  thing! 

IV. 

Ho !  bring  me  here  the  wizard,  boy, 

Of  most  surpassing  skill. 
To  agonize,  and  not  destroy. 

To  palsy,  and  not  kill : 
If  there  be  truth  in  that  dread  art. 

In  song,  and  spell,  and  charm, 
Now  let  them  torture  the  base  heart, 

And  wither  the  false  arm ! 

V. 

I  curse  him  by  our  country's  gods. 

The  terrible,  the  dark. 
The  scatterers  of  the  Eoman  rods. 

The  Quellers  of  the  bark! 


AKMINIDS. 


34:9 


They  fill  a  cup  with  bitter  woe, 

They  fill  it  to  the  brim ! 
"Where  shades  of  warriors  feast  below 

That  cup  shall  be  for  him  ! 

vr. 
I  curse  him  by  the  gifts  our  land 

Hath  owed  to  him  and  Rome — 
The  riving  axe  and  burning  brand, 

Rent  forests,  blazing  home  ; — 
Oh,  may  he  shudder  at  the  thought, 

Who  triumphs  in  the  sight ; 
And  be  his  waking  terrors  wrought 

Into  fierce  dreams  by  night. 

vn. 

I  curse  him  by  tlie  hearts  that  sigh 

In  cavern,  grove,  and  glen, — 
The  sobs  of  orphaned  infancy, 

The  tears  of  aged  men  ; — 
"When  swords  are  out,  and  spear  and  diir' 

Leave  little  space  for  prayer. 
No  fetter  on  man's  arm  and  heart 

Hangs  half  so  heavy  there. 

VIII. 

Oh,  misery,  that  such  a  vow 

On  such  a  head  should  be ! 
Why  comes  he  not,  my  brother,  now, 

To  fight  or  fall  with  me, — 
Vol.  I.— 23 


350  AKMINIUS. 

To  be  my  mate  in  banquet  bowl, 
My  guard  in  battle  throng  ? 

And  worthy  of  his  father's  soul 
And  of  his  country's  song  ? 


But  it  is  past ; — where  heroes  press 

And  spoilers  bend  the  knee, 
Arminius  is  not  brotherless, — 

His  brethren  are  the  free  ! 
They  come  around;  one  hour,  and  light 

"Will  fade  from  turf  and  tide ; 
Then  onward,  onward  to  the  fight, 

With  darkness  for  our  guide ! 

X. 

To-night,  to-night, — when  we  shall  meet 

In  combat  face  to  face, — 
There  only  would  Arminius  greet 

The  renegade's  embrace ; 
The  canker  of  Eome's  guilt  shall  be 

Upon  his  Roman  name. 
And  as  he  lives  in  slavery, 

So  shall  he  die  in  shame  I 

(182T.) 


REMEMBER   ME.  351 


REMEMBER  ME. 

In  Seville,  when  the  feast  was  long, 
And  lips  and  lutes  grev.'  free, 

At  Inez'  feet,  amid  the  throng, 
A  masquer  bent  his  knee ; 

And  still  the  burden  of  his  song 
"Was,  "  Sweet,  remember  me ! 

"  Remember  me  in  shine  and  shower, 

In  sorrow  and  in  glee  ; 
When  summer  breathes  upon  the  flower; 

When  winter  blasts  the  tree; 
When  there  are  dances  in  the  bower, 

Or  sails  upon  the  sea. 

"Remember  me  beneath  far  skies, 

On  foreign  lawn  or  lea ; 
When  others  worship  those  wild  eyes 

Which  I  no  more  may  see  ; 
When  others  wake  the  melodies 

Of  which  I  mar  the  key. 

"  Remember  me !  my  heart  will  claim 
No  love,  no  trust  from  thee ; 

Remember  me,  though  doubt  and  blame 
Linked  with  the  record  be ; 

Remember  me, — with  scorn  or  shame, — 
But  yet,  remember  me!" 

0827.) 


352      TO    THE    KEY.    DERWEST    COLEKIDGfE. 

TO  THE  REV.  DERWENT  COLERIDGE, 

ON   HIS   MARRIAGE. 

Who  must  the  beauteous  Lady  be 

That  wins  that  heart  of  thine  ? 
Tn  a  dream,  methinks,  she  comes  to  me, 

Half  mortal,  half  divine, 
Robed  in  a  fine  and  fairy  dress 

From  Fancy's  richest  store, — 
A  more  becoming  garb,  I  guess, 

Than  e'er  man's  mistress  wore  ! 
With  a  step  that  glides  o'er  turf  and  stone 

As  light  as  the  morning  beams. 
And  a  voice  whose  every  Avhispered  tone 

Calls  up  a  host  of  dreams ; 
And  a  form  which  you  might  safely  swear 

Young  Nature  taught  to  dance, 
And  dazzling  brow  and  floating  hair 

Which  are  themselves  romance  ; 
And  eyes  more  eloquently  bright 

Than  ether's  brightest  star. 
With  much  of  genius  in  their  light. 

And  more  of  fondness  far ; 
And  an  untainted  love  of  earth 

And  all  earth's  lovely  things. 
And  smiles  and  tears,  Avhose  grief  and  mirth 

Flow  forth  from  kindred  springs  ; 


FKOM    GOETHE. 


353 


And  a  calm  heart,  so  wholly  given 

To  him  whose  love  it  wixkes, 
That  through  all  storms  of  Fate  and  Heaven 

It  hcnds  with  his — or  breaks. 

Such  must  the  beauteous  Lady  be 

That  wins  that  heart  of  thine, 
And  is  to  thy  fair  destiny 

Wliat  none  may  be  to  mine  I 

(1S2T.) 


FROM  GOETHE. 

Unheeded  toils,  unvalued  cares. 

And  slighted  sighs,  and  baffled  prayers, 

Hate,  cruelty,  caprice,  disdain, — 
Are  these  thy  sad  harp's  saddest  theme. 
Thy  morning  thought,  thy  midnight  dream  ? 

Away ! — it  is  a  weary  lot 
To  waste  love's  songs  where  love  is  not ; 
But  do  not  thou,  fond  boy,  complain ; 
Alas !    to  some  'tis  bitterer  far 
To  love,  and  feel  how  loved  they  are ! 

(Junk  12,  1S28.) 


354  MEMOET. 


MEMORY. 

Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  recordarsi  del  tempo  felice, 
Nella  miseria. 

DanU. 

I. 

Stand  on  a  funeral  mound, 

Far,  far  from  all  that  love  thee : 
With  a  barren  heath  around, 

And  a  cypress  bower  above  thee  : 
And  think,  while  the  sad  wind  frets. 

And  the  night  in  cold  gloom  closes. 
Of  spring,  and  spring's  sweet  violets. 

Of  summer,  and  summer's  roses. 


Sleep  where  the  thunders  fly 

Across  the  tossing  billow ; 
Thy  canopy  the  sky, 

And  the  lonely  deck  thy  pillow  ; 
And  dream,  whUe  the  chill  sea-foam 

In  mockery  dashes  o'er  thee. 
Of  the  cheerful  hearth,  and  the  quiet  home, 

And  the  kiss  of  her  that  bore  thee. 


MEMOEY. 

III. 

Watch  in  the  deepest  cell 

Of  the  foeman's  duiigeon-tower, 
Till  hope's  most  cherished  spell 

Has  lost  its  cheering  power ; 
And  sing,  while  the  galling  chain 

On  every  stiff  limb  freezes, 
Of  the  huntsman  hurrying  o'er  the  plain. 

Of  the  breath  of  the  mountain  breezes. 


Talk  of  the  minstrel's  lute. 

The  warrior's  high  endeavour, 
"When  the  honeyed  lips  are  mute, 

And  the  strong  arm  crushed  forever ; 
Look  back  to  the  summer  sun, 

From  the  mist  of  dark  Deceniber  ; 
Then  say  to  the  broken-hearted  one, 

"  'Tis  pleasant  to  remember  1" 

(Ai'BiL  11, 1S29.) 


355 


356  FuiMus ! 


FUIMUS  ! 

Go  to  the  once-loved  bowers  ; 
"Wreathe  blushing  roses  for  the  lady's  hair : 

Winter  has    been    upon    the    leaves    and 
flowers, — 

They  were ! 

Look  for  the  domes  of  kings  ; 
Lo,  the  owl's  fortress,  or  the  tiger's  lair! 

Oblivion  sits  beside  them ;  Mockery  sings, 
They  were ! 

Waken  the  minstrel's  lute ; 
Bid  the  smooth  pleader  charm  the  listening  air: 
The  chords  are   broken,  and  the  lips  are 
mute  :^— 

They  were ! 

Visit  the  great  and  brave ; 
Worship  the  witcheries  of  the  bright  and  fair: 
Is  not  thy  foot  upon  a  new-made  grave? — 
They  were! 

Speak  to  thine  own  heart;  prove 
The  secrets  of  thy  nature.     What  is  there? 
Wild  hopes,  warm  fancies,  fervent  faitli, 
fond  love, — 

They  were! 


LINES.  6b  i 

We  too,  we  too  must  fall ; 
A  few  brief  years  to  labour  and  to  boar  ; — 
Then  comes  the  sexton,  and  the  old  trite  tale, 
"We  were!" 

(May  21,  1829.) 


LINES. 

SENT   IN   THANKS   FOR    A    BOTTLE   OF   VEKY    FINE 
OLD    BRANDT.      WRITTEN   FOR    LADY   C . 

Spirits  there  were,  in  olden  time, 

Which  wrought  all  sorts  of  wondrous  things 
(As  we  are  told  in  prose  and  rhyme) 

With  wands  and  potions,  lamps  and  rings ; 
I  know  not,  Lady  fair, — do  you  ? — 
Whether  those  tales  be  false  or  true. 

But  in  our  day — our  dismal  day 
Of  sadder  song  and  soberer  mirtli. 

If  any  spirits  ever  play 

Upon  the  faded  fields  of  earth, 

Whose  magic.  Lady  fair,  can  fling 

O'er  winter's  frosts  the  flowers  of  spring, — 


868         CHILDHOOD   A2fD   HIS    VISITORS. 

If  any  spirits  haunt  our  Isle 

Whose  power  can  make  old  age  look  gay, 
Revive  the  tone,  relume  the  smile, 

And  chase  threescore  of  years  away, — 
Such  spirits,  Lady  fair,  must  be 
Like  those  your  kindness  sends  to  me  I 

(Mat  2,  1829.) 


CHILDHOOD  AND  HIS  VISITORS. 


Once  on  a  time,  when  sunny  May 

"Was  kissing  up  the  April  showers, 
I  saw  fair  Childhood  hard  at  play 

Upon  a  hank  of  blushing  flowers : 
Happy — he  knew  not  whence  or  how, — 

And  smiling, — who  could  choose  but  love  liim  ? 
For  not  more  glad  than  Childhood's  brow 

"Was  the  blue  heaven  that  beamed  above  him. 


Old  Time,  in  most  appalling  wrath. 
That  valley's  green  repose  invaded ; 

The  brooks  grew  dry  upon  his  path, 
The  birds  were  mute,  the  lilies  fiided. 


CHILDHOOD   AND    HIS    VISITOliS.         350 

But  Time  so  swiftly  winged  bis  fllglit, 
In  haste  a  Grecian  tomb  to  batter, 

That  Childbood  watched  bis  paper  kite, 
And  Ijftew  just  nothing  of  the  matter. 


With  curling  lip  and  glancing  eye, 

Guilt  gazed  upon  the  scene  a  minute ; 
But  Childhood's  glance  of  purity 

Had  such  a  holy  spell  within  it, 
That  tlie  dark  demon  to  the  air 

Spread  forth  again  his  baffled  pinion, 
And  hid  his  envy  and  despair, 

Self-tortured,  in  his  own  dominion. 

IV. 

Then  stepped  a  gloomy  phantom  up. 

Pale,  cypress-crowned,  Night's  awful  daughter, 
And  proffered  him  a  fearful  cup, 

Full  to  the  brim  of  bitter  water : 
Poor  Childhood  bade  her  tell  her  name ; 

And  when  the  beldame  muttered — "  Sorrow," 
He  said, — "Don't  interrupt  my  game; 

I'll  taste  it,  if  I  must,  to-morrow." 

V. 

The  Muse  of  Pindus  tliither  came, 

And  wooed  him  with  the  softest  numbers 

That  ever  scattered  wealth  and  fame 
Upon  a  youthful  poet's  slumbers. 


360         CHILDHOOD   AND    HIS    VISITOES. 

Though  sweet  the  music  of  the  lay, 
To  Childhood  it  was  all  a  riddle, 

And  "Oh,"  he  cried,  "  do  send  away 
That  noisy  woman  with  the  fiddle !" 

TI. 

Then  Wisdom  stole  his  bat  and  ball, 

And  taught  him,  with  most  sage  endeavour, 
Why  bubbles  rise,  and  acorns  fall, 

And  why  no  toy  may  lust  forever : 
She  talked  of  all  the  wondrous  laws 

"Which  Nature's  open  book  discloses. 
And  Childhood,  ere  she  made  a  pause, 

"Was  fast  asleep  among  the  roses. 

vn. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on! — Oh!  manhood's  dreams 

Are  all  of  earthly  pain  or  pleasure, 
Of  Glory's  toils,  Ambition's  schemes. 

Of  cherished  love  or  hoarded  treasure : 
But  to  the  couch  where  Childhood  lies 

A  more  delicious  trance  is  given. 
Lit  up  by  rays  from  Seraph-eyes, 

And  glimpses  of  remembered  heaven. 

(1829.) 


CHILDHOOD'S   CRITICISM.  361 


CHILDHOOD'S  CRITICISM. 


ON  HEE  REPEATING  THE 


PRECEDIXG    LINES. 

"You've  only  got  to  curtsey,  whisp — 
— er,  hold  your  head  up,  laugh  and  lisp, 
And  then  you're  sure  to  take." 

Rejected  Addresses. 

I. 

A  Poet  o'er  his  tea  and  toast 

Composed  a  page  of  verse  last  winter, 
Transcribed  it  on  the  best  Bath  post, 

And  sent  the  treasure  to  a  printer. 
He  thought  it  an  enchanting  thing  ; 

And,  fancying  no  one  else  could  doubt  it, 
Went  out,  as  happy  as  a  king, 

To  hear  what  people  said  about  it. 

II. 

Queen  Fame  was  driving  out  that  day ; 

And,  though  she  scarcely  seemed  to  know  him, 
He  bustled  up,  and  tried  to  say 

Sometliing  about  his  little  poem  ; 
But  ere  from  his  unhappy  lip 

Three  timid  trembling  words  could  falter, 
The  goddess  cracked  her  noisy  whip, 

And  went  to  call  upon  Sir  "Walter! 


362         childhood's  criticism. 

in. 

Old  Criticism,  whose  glance  observed 

Tlie  minstrel's  blushes  and  confusion, 
Came  up  and  told  him  he  deserved 

The  rack  at  least  for  his  intrusion  : 
The  poor  youth  stared  and  strove  to  spealc; 

His  tyrant  laughed  to  see  him  wincing, 
And  grumbled  out  a  line  of  Greek, 

Which  Dulness  said  was  quite  convincing. 

IV. 

Then  stepped  a  gaunt  and  wrinkled  witch, 

Hight  Avarice,  from  her  filthy  hovel ; 
And  "Ehymc,"  quoth  she,  "won't  make   you 
rich  ; 

Go  home,  good  yonth,  and  write  a  novel ! 
Cut  up  the  follies  of  the  age ; 

Sauce  them  with  puns  and  disquisitions ; 
Let  Colburn  cook  your  title-page, 

And  I'll  insure  you  six  editions." 

V. 

Ambition  met  him  next ;— he  sighed 

To  see  those  once-loved  wreaths  uf  kurel, 
And  crept  into  a  bower  to  hide, 

For  he  and  she  had  had  a  quarrel. 
The  goddess  of  the  cumbrous  crown 

Called  after  him,  in  tones  of  pity, 
"  My  son,  you've  dropped  your  wig  and  gown!^^ 

And,  bless  me,  how  you've  torn  your  Chitty  I" 


childhood's  criticism.  363 

VI. 

'Twas  all  iinlicecled  or  unheard, 

For  now  he  knocked  at  Beautj^'s  portal ; 
One  word  from  her,  one  golden  word. 

He  knew,  would  make  his  lays  immortal. 
Alas !  he  elbowed  through  a  throng 

Of  danglers,  dancers,  catgut  scrapers. 
And  found  her  twisting  up  his  song 

Into  the  sweetest  candle-papers. 

VII. 

He  turned  away  with  sullen  looks 

From  Beauty,  and  from  Beauty's  scorning. 
"  To-night,"  he  said,  "  I'll  burn  my  books ; 

I'll  break  my  harpstrings  in  the  morning." — 
When  lo,  a  laughing  Fay  drew  near ; 

And  with  soft  voice,  more  soft  than  Circe's, 
She  whispered  in  the  poet's  ear 

The  sounds  the  poet  loved — his  verses ! 

VIII. 

He  looked,  and  listened;  and  it  seemed 

In  Childhood's  lips  the  lines  grew  sweeter  : 
Good  lack!  till  now  he  had  not  dreamed 

How  bright  the   thought,  how   smooth   the 
metre. 
Ere  the  last  stanza  was  begun. 

He  managed  all  his  wrath  to  smother ; 
And  when  the  little  Nymph  had  done, 

Said,  "  Thank  you,  Love ; — I'll  write  another !" 

VOctobkhI,  1829  j 


364         BEAUTY    A^V    BCEK    VISITOR?. 


BEAUTY  AND  HER  VISITORS. 

I. 

I  LOOKED  for  Beauty  : — on  a  throne, 

A  dazzling  throne  of  light,  I  fonnd  her  ; 
And  Music  poured  its  softest  tone 

And  flowers  their  sweetest  breath  around  her. 
A  score  or  two  of  idle  gods, 

Some  dressed  as  peers,  and  some  as  peasant*, 
"Were  watching  all  her  smiles  and  nods, 

And  making  compliments  and  presents.. 


And  first  young  Love,  the  rosy  boy, 

Exhibited  his  bow  and  arrows, 
And  gave  her  many  a  pretty  toy. 

Torches,  and  bleeding  hearts,  and  sparrows : 
She  told  him,  as  he  passed,  she  knew 

Her  court  would  scarcely  do  without  him ; 
But  yet — she  hoped  they  were  not  true — 

There  were  some  awkward  tales  about  him. 


Wealth  deemed  that  magic  had  no  charm 
More  mighty  than  the  gifts  he  brought  her, 

And  linked  around  her  radiant  arm 
Bright  diamonds  of  the  purest  water: 


BEATJTY  AND   HER   VISTTOES.  365 

The  Goddess,  with  a  scornful  touch, 
Unclasped  the  gaudy,  galling  fetter ; 

And  said, — she  thanked  him  very  much,— 
She  lili;ed  a  wreath  of  roses  better. 

IV. 

Then  Genius  snatched  his  golden  lute, 

And  told  a  tale  of  love  and  glory : 
The  crowd  around  were  hushed  and  mute 

To  hear  so  sad  and  sweet  a  story ; 
And  Beauty  marked  the  minstrel's  cheek, 

So  very  pale — no  bust  was  paler ; 
Vowed  she  could  listen  for  a  week ; 

But  really — he  should  change  his  tailor  I 

V. 

As  died  the  echo  of  the  strings, 

A  shadowy  Phantom  kneeled  before  her, 

Looked  all  unutterable  tilings, 

•     And  swore,  to  see  was  to  adore  her ; 

He  called  her  veil  a  cruel  cloud, 

Her  cheek  a  rose,  her  smile  a  battery : 

She  fancied  it  was  Wit  that  bowed ; — ■ 
I'm  almost  certain  it  was  Flattery. 

TI. 

There  was  a  beldame  finding  fault 
With  every  person's  every  feature  ; 

And  by  the  sneer,  and  by  the  halt, 
I  knew  at  once  the  odious  creature : 
Vol.  L— 24 


366  BEAUTY    AND    HEE   VISITOES. 

"  You  see,"  quotli  Envy,  "  I  am  come 
To  bow — as  is  my  bouudeii  duty ; — 

They  tell  me  Beauty  is  at  liome  ;— 
Impossible!  that  canH  be  Beauty  !" 


I  heard  a  murmur  far  and  wide 

Of  "Lord!  how  quick  the  dotard  passes!" 
As  Time  threw  down  at  Beauty's  side 

The  prettiest  of  his  clocks  and  glasses ; 
But  it  was  noticed  in  the  throng 

How  Beauty  marred  the  maker's  cunning ; 
For  when  she  talked,  the  hands  went  wrong ; 

And  when  she  smiled,  the  sands  stopped  run- 


vni. 

Death,  in  a  doctor's  wig  and  gown, 

Came,  arm  in  arm  with  Lethe,  thither, 
And  crowned  her  witli  a  withered  crown, 

And  hinted,  Beauty  too  must  wither ! 
"Avaunt!"  she  cried— "how  came  he  here? 

The  frightful  fiend!  he's  my  abhorrence  !" 
I  went  and  whispered  in  her  ear, 

"  He  shall  not  hurt  you !— sit  to  Lawrence  1" 

(1829.) 


HOW   AM   I   LIKE    HER?  367 


HOW  AM  I  LIKE  HER? 

"Toil  are  very  like  her." — 3fi-es  II I^ . 

"  Ecsemblances  begin  to  strilco 
In  things  exceedingly  unlike." — MS.  Poem. 

How  am  I  like  her  ? — for  no  trace 

Of  pain,  of  passion,  or  of  aught 
That  stings  or  stains,  is  on  her  face : 

Mild  eyes,  clear  forehead, — ne'er  -^-as  -wrought 
A  fitter,  fairer  dwelling-place 

For  tranquil  joy  and  holy  thought. 

How  am  I  like  her? — for  the  fawn 
Not  lighter  bounds  o'er  rock  and  rill 

Than  she,  beneath  the  intruding  dawn 
Threading,  all  mirth,  our  gay  quadrille ; 

Or  tripping  o'er  our  level  lawn 
To  those  she  loves  upon  the  hUl. 

How  am  I  like  her  ? — for  the  ear 

Thrills  with  her  voice.     Its  breezy  tone 

Goes  forth,  as  eloquently  clear 
As  are  the  lutes  at  Heaven's  high  throne ; 

And  makes  the  hearts  of  those  who  hear 
As  pure  and  peaceful  as  her  own. 


3G8  HOW    AM    I    LIKE    HER? 

How  am  I  like  her  ? — for  lier  ways 
Are  full  of  bliss.     She  never  knew 

Stern  Avarice,  nor  the  thirst  of  praise 
Insatiable ; — Love  never  threw 

Upon  her  calm  and  sunny  days 
The  venom  of  his  deadly  dew. 

How  am  I  like  her  ? — for  her  arts 

Are  blessing.     Soi-row  owns  her  thrall; 

She  dries  the  tear-drop  as  it  starts, 
And  checks  the  murmurs  as  they  fall ; 

She  is  the  day-star  of  our  hearts, 
Consoling,  guiding,  gladdening  all. 

How  am  I  like  her? — for  she  steals 

All  sympathies.     Glad  Childhood's  play 

Is  left  for  her ;  and  wild  Youth  kneels 
Obedient  to  her  gentle  sway ; 

And  Age  beholds  her  smile,  and  feels 
December  brightening  into  May. 

How  am  I  like  her  ?— The  rude  fir 
Is  little  like  the  sweet  rose-tree : — 

Unless,  perchance,  fair  flatterer, 
In  this  your  fabled  likeness  be, — 

That  all  who  are  most  dear  to  her 
Axe  apt  to  be  most  dear  to  me. 

(October  10, 1829.) 


MY    LITTLE   COUSINS.  369 


MY  LITTLE  COUSINS. 

E  voi  ridete  ? — Certo  ridiamo. 

Cosi /an  tuite. 

Laugh  on,  fair  consins,  for  to  you 

All  life  is  joyous  yet ; 
Your  hearts  have  all  things  to  pursue, 

And  nothing  to  regret ; 
And  every  flower  to  you  is  fair; 

And  every  month  is  May ; 
You've  not  been  introduced  to  Care, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day ! 

Old  Time  will  fling  his  clouds,  ere  long, 

Upon  those  sunny  eyes; 
The  voice  whose  every  word  is  song, 

"Will  set  itself  to  sighs ; 
Your  quiet  slumbers, — hopes  and  feai's 

Will  chase  their  rest  away ; 
To-morrow,  you'll  be  shedding  tears, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day! 

Oh,  yes ;  if  any  truth  is  found 
In  the  dull  schoolman's  tlieme,—  ■ 

If  friendship  is  an  empty  sound, 
And  love  an  idle  dream, — 


370  MT    LITTLE    COUSINS. 

If  Mirth,  youth's  phaymate,  feels  fatiguo 
Too  soon  on  life's  long  way, 

At  least  he'll  run  witli  you  a  league, — 
Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day ! 


Perhaps  your  eyes  may  grow  more  briglit 

As  childhood's  hues  depart ; 
You  may  be  lovelier  to  the  sight, 

And  dearer  to  the  heart ; 
You  may  he  sinless  stUl,  and  see 

This  earth  still  green  and  gay ; 
But  what  you  are  you  will  not  be, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

O'er  me  have  many  winters  crept. 

With  less  of  grief  than  joy ; 
But  I  have  learned,  and  toiled,  and  wept,— 

I  am  no  more  a  boy ! 
I've  never  had  the  gout,  'tis  true; 

My  hair  is  hardly  g^ay ; 
-But  now  I  cannot  laugh  like  you, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day! 

I  used  to  have  as  glad  a  face. 

As  shadowless  a  brow  : 
I  once  could  run  as  blithe  a  race 

As  you  are  running  now; 


ON   AN   INFANT   NEPHEW.  371 

But  never  mind  how  I  behave, 

Don't  interrupt  your  play ; 
And  though  I  look  so  very  grave, 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  1 

(Ma ECU  8,  1S30.) 


ON  AN  INFANT  NEPHEW. 

The  little  one — the  little  one  ! 

'Tis  a  fearful  thing  and  strange, 
That  the  silent  seasons  as  they  run 

Should  work  such  mighty  change! 
The  lips  that  cannot  lisp  my  name 

May  rule  the  stern  debate ; 
And  the  hands  too  weak  for  childhood's  game 

Sport  with  the  falchion's  weight ! 

The  beauteous  one — the  beauteous  one  ! 

In  the  wide  world,  I  wis, 
There's  many  a  beauteous  thing,  but  none 

Of  beauty  like  to  this. 
In  youth  and  age,  eartli's  sinful  leaven 

Where'er  we  go  we  ti-ace ; 
But  there  is  only  peace  and  Heaven 

In  the  smile  of  an  infaoit's  lixce. 


o72  ON    AN    INFANT   NEniEW, 

The  merry  one — the  merry  one  ! 

He  is  all  wit  and  whim  ; 
Our  life  has  naught  but  a  cloudless  sun 

And  a  waveless  sea  for  him. 
He  knows  not  Sorrow's  thorny  path, 

Nor  Pleasure's  flowery  snare, 
JTor  heeds  the  bitter  glance  of  wrath, 

Nor  the  haggard  cheek  of  Care. 

The  cherished  one — the  cherished  one  1 

A  mystery  is  the  love 
Of  parents  for  their  infant  son ; 

It  cometh  from  above. 
He  is  all  music  to  their  ear, 

All  glory  to  their  sight; 
By  day  he  is  their  hope  and  fear, 

Their  thought  and  dream  by  night. 

The  guiltless  one — the  guiltless  one ! 

How  blest  the  earth  would  be, 
If  her  best  and  holiest  men  had  done 

No  more  of  wrong  than  he ! 
If  the  blot  of  sin  and  the  doom  of  pain 

On  the  baby's  brow  be  set, — 
O  brother ! — who  shall  see  the  stain, 

Or  read  the  sentence  yet  ? 

a830.v 


LINES.  373 


LIXES. 

The  hues  of  life  are  fading  from  her  wan  and 

wasted  cheek ; 
Her  voice  is  as  an  infant's  voice,  a  whisper  faint 

and  weak ; 
But  still  we  look  and  listen,  for  our  hearts  have 

never  known 
Such  sweetness  in  a  countenance,  such  softness 

in  a  tone. 

She  is  passing  from  the  world,  from  the  weary 
Avorld  away, 

From  the  sorrows  that  afflict  us,  from  the  pleas- 
ures that  betray ; 

And  another  Home — a  fairer  Home — is  opened 
to  her  sight, 

Where  the  summer  shines  forever,  where  the 
roses  know  no  blight. 

I  know  that  we  shall  miss  her,  in  the  evening 
and  the  dawn. 

In  our  converse  round  the  fireside,  in  our  walk 
upon  the  lawn ; 

I  know  that  we  shall  miss  her,  in  our  mirth  and 
in  our  care, 

In  the  breaking  of  our  bread,  and  in  the  breath- 
ing of  our  prayer. 


374:  LINES. 

And  not  the  ring  or  brooch  alone,  bnt  whatsoe'er 

Ave  see, 
The  river  and  the  green  hill-side,  the  cottage 

and  the  tree, 
"Will  bring  her  image  back  to  us ;  there  is  not  m 

our  heart 
A  single  hope — a  single  fear — in  which  she  has 

no  part. 

Yet  weep  not,  if  you  love  her,  that  her  tedious 

toil  is  done ; 
Oh,  weep  not,  if  you  love  her,  that  her  hoi}'  rest 

is  won ! 
There  should  be  gladness  in  your  thought  and 

smiles  upon  your  brow. 
For  will  she  not  be  happy  then? — is  she  not 

happy  now  ? 

And  we  will  learn  to  talk  of  her; — and  after 

many  years 
The  tears  which  we  shall  shed  for  her  will  not 

be  bitter  tears, 
"When  we  shall  tell  each  other,  with  a  fond  and 

thankful  pride. 
In  vv'liat  purity  she  lived,  and  in  what  peaceful- 

ness  she  died. 

(May  26,  ISSO.) 


A   FRAGMENT.  375 


A  FRAGMENT. 

Hast  thou  e'er  watched  and  wept  beside  the  bed 
On  wliich  some  dying  friend  reposed  his  head, — ■ 
Some  loved  and  reverenced  friend,  from  whom 

thy  youth 
Learned  its  first  dream  of  happiness  and  truth? 
When  those  fast-fading  eyes  were  closed  on  earth, 
On  its  vain  mourning,  and  its  vainer  mirth, 
"When  the  strong  spirit  in  the  painful  strife 
Already  seemed  to  live  its  after-life, 
Viewing  the  homes  which  are  prepared  above 
"With  firmer  knowledge  and  with  fonder  love, — 
Oh  then,  with  what  sad  reverence  didst  thou 

dwell 
On  every  word  that  from  those  wan  lips  fell ! 
How  didst  thou  consecrate  with  grateful  care 
The  half-told   message  and  the   half-breathed 

prayer  I 
And,  when  the  soul  was  trembling  to  depart, 
How  was  the  look  engraven  on  thy  heart 
Which  turned  to  seek  thee,  ere  the  spirit  passed, 
And  smiled  a  blessing  on  thee  at  the  last ! 

(ISSO.) 


376  HOPE    AND   LOVE. 


HOPE  AND   LOVE. 


One  day  through  Fancy's  telescope, 

Which  is  my  richest  treasure, 
I  saw,  dear  Susan,  Love  and  Hope 

Set  out  in  search  of  Pleasure : 
All  mirth  and  smiles  I  saw  them  go; 

Each  was  the  other's  hanker ; 
For  Hope  took  up  her  brother's  bow, 

And  Love,  his  sister's  anchor. 

II. 

They  rambled  on  o'er  vale  and  hill. 

They  passed  by  cot  and  tower ; 
Through  summer's  glow  and  winter's  chill, 

Through  sunshine  and  through  shower : 
But  what  did  those  fond  playmates  care 

For  climate  or  for  weather  ? 
All  scenes  to  them  were  bright  and  fair, 

On  which  they  gazed  together. 

III. 
Sometimes  they  turned  aside  to  bless 

Some  Muse  and  her  wild  numbers, 
Or  breathe  a  dream  of  holiness 

On  Beauty's  quiet  slumbers : 


HOPE   AND   LOVE.  377 

"Fly  on,"  said  Wisdom,  with  cold  sneers; 

"  I  teach  my  friends  to  doubt  you:" 
"  Come  back,"  said  Age,  with  bitter  tears; 

"My  heart  is  cold  without  you." 

IV, 

When  Poverty  beset  their  path, 

And  threatened  to  divide  them, 
They  coaxed  away  the  beldame's  wrath 

Ere  she  had  breath  to  chide  them, 
By  vowing  all  her  rags  were  silk. 

And  all  her  bitters,  honey. 
And  showing  taste  for  bread  and  milk, 

And  utter  scorn  for  money. 

V. 

They  met  stern  Danger  in  their  way. 

Upon  a  ruin  seated ; 
Before  him  kings  had  quaked  that  day, 

And  armies  had  retreated ; 
But  he  was  robed  in  such  a  cloud, 

As  Love  and  Hope  came  near  him, 
That  though  he  thundered  long  and  loud, 

They  did  not  see  or  hear  him. 

VI. 

A  gray-beard  joined  them.  Time  by  name ; 

And  Love  was  nearly  crazy 
To  find  that  he  was  very  lame, 

And  also  very  lazy : 


378  HOPE   AND  LOVE. 

Hope,  as  he  listened  to  her  tale, 

Tied  wings  upon  his  jacket; 
And  then  they  far  outran  the  mail. 

And  far  outsailed  the  packet. 

VII. 

And  so,  when  they  had  safely  passed 

O'er  many  a  land  and  hillow,' 
Before  a  grave  they  stopped  at  last, 

Beneath  a  weeping  willow : 
The  moon  upon  the  hnmhle  mound 

Her  softest  light  was  flinging ; 
And  from  the  thickets  all  around 

Sad  nightingales  were  singing. 

VIII. 

"I  leave  you  here,"  quoth  Father  Time, 

As  hoarse  as  any  raven  ; 
And  Love  kneeled  down  to  spell  the  rhyme, 

Upon  the  rude  stone  graven : 
But  Hope  looked  onward,  calmly  hrave, 

And  whispered,  "  Dearest  brother. 
We're  parted  on  this  side  the  grave, — 

We'll  meet  upon  the  other." 

(1830.) 


BELWOKTHir.  379 


SELWORTHY. 

WEITTEN   TINDER   A   SKETCH   OF   SIR   THOMAS   AO- 
LA^^D'S   COTTAGES   FOR   THE   POOR. 

I. 

A  GEXTLE  Muse  was  hovering  o'er 
The  wide,  wide  world,  and  looking  long 

For  a  pleasant  spot  where  a  Muse  might  pour 
To  the  wood  or  the  wave  her  liquid  song ; 

And  ""Who,"  said  she,  "of  the  kind  aud  free — 

Who  will  open  his  gate  for  me?" 

II. 

"Come  hither,"  said  "Wealth,  "to  my  crowded 
mart, 

"Where  splendour  dazzles  the  gazer's  eye ; 
"Where  the  sails  approach  and  the  sails  depart 

"With  every  breath  of  the  summer  sky." 
"  Oh,  no,"  said  she ;  "  by  the  shore  of  the  sea 
"V/ealth  has  no  room  in  his  store  for  me  I" 

III. 
"Come  hither,"   said   "War,    "to    my  moated 
tower ; 
Danger  and  Death  have  walked  the  plain ; 


380  SELWOTiTHY. 

But  the  arrowy  sleet  of  the  iron  shower 

Beats  on  these  stubborn  walls  in  vain." 
"  Oh,  no,"  said  she ;  "  there  is  blood  on  the  key 
War  shall  not  open  a  lock  for  roe !" 

tv. 

"Come  hither,"  said  Love,  "to  my  rosy  dell, 
Where  nothing  of  grief  or  care  has  birth; 

Rest  in  my  bower,  where  sweet  dreams  dwell, 
Making  a  heaven— a  heaven  of  earth." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  she;   "at  this  trysting-tree 

Love  is  too  happy  to  think  of  me  !" 

V. 

And  she  lifted  at  last  the  humble  latch, 

And  entered  in  at  a  lowly  door ; 
For  Charity  there  had  spread  the  thatch 

O'er  the  peaceful  roof  of  the  sick  and  poor. 
And  "Here,"  said  she,  "my  rest  shall  be; 
Here  is  a  home  and  a  theme  for  me." 

(AtiGiTST  7,  1830.) 


OASSAJSTDEA.  381 


CASSANDRA. 

AvfltS  irpb?  aA/C)jf  /cat  iiapTraya?  Soixiov 
K.  u  irOp  eVavya^ouirai'  aicTTuiTripLOv. 

LycopJieron,  Cassandra,  C'J 


I. 

They  harried  to  the  feast, 

The  warrior  and  the  priest, 
And  the  gay  maiden  with  her  jewelled  brow  ; 

The  minstrel's  harp  and  voice 

Said,. "Triumph  and  rejoice!" 
One  only  mourned! — many  are  mournina:  now! 

II. 
"  Peace !  startle  not  the  light 
With  the  wild  dreams  of  night;" — 

So  spake  the  princes  in  their  pride  and  joy, 
When  I  iu  their  dull  ears 
Shrieked  forth  my  tale  of  tears, 

"Woe  to  the  gorgeous  city,  woe  to  Troy  I"-— 

in. 

Ye  watch  the  dun  smoke  rise 
Up  to  the  lurid  skies ; 
Ye  see  the  red  light  flickering  on  the  stroam; 
Vol.  L— 25 


382  OASSAOTJEA. 

Ye  listen  to  fhe  fall 
Of  gate,  and  tower,  and  wall ; 
Sisters,  the  time  is  come ! — alas,  it  is  no  dream 


rv. 

Through  hall,  and  court,  and  porcb, 

Glides  on  the  pitiless  torcli ; 
The  swift  avengers  faint  not  in  their  toil : 

Vain  now  the  matron's  sighs, 

Yain  now  the  infant's  cries ; — 
Look,  sisters,  look !  who  leads  them  to  tha  ■spoil  \ 


Not  Pyrrhns,  though  his  hand 

Is  on  his  father's  hrand ; 
Not  the  fell  framer  of  the  accursed  Steed ; 

Not  Nestor's  hoary  head. 

Nor  Teucer's  rapid  tread. 
Nor  the  fierce  wrath  of  impious  Diomede. 

VI. 

Visions  of  deeper  fear 

To-night  are  warring  here  ; — 
I  know  them,  sisters,  the  mysterious  Three : 

Minerva's  lightning  frown, 

And  Juno's  golden  crown, 
And  him,  the  mighty  Ruler  of  the  sounding  seal 


CASSANDRA.  S83 

VU. 
Througli  wailing  aud  through  woe, 
Silent  and  stern  they  go ; 
So  have  I  ever  seen  them  in  my  trance : 
Exultingly  they  guide 
Destruction's  fiery  tide, 
And  lift  the  dazzling  shield,  aud  poise  the  deadly 
lance. 

VIII. 

Lo,  where  the  old  man  stands, 
Folding  his  palsied  hands, 
And  muttering,  with  white  lips,  his  querulous 
prayer : 
"  Where  is  my  noble  son. 
My  best,  my  bravest  one — 
Troy's  hope  and  Priam's — wliere  is  Hector,— 
where  ?" 

IX. 

Why  is  thy  falchion  grasped? 

Why  is  thy  helmet  clasped  ? 
Fitter  the  fillet  for  such  brow  as  thine  ! 

The  altar  reeks  with  gore  ; 

O  sisters,  look  no  more ! 
It  is  our  father's  blood  upon  the  shrine  I 

s. 

And  ye,  alas !  must  roam 
Far  from  your  desolate  home, 
Far  from  lost  Iliura,  o'er  the  joyless  wave ; 


884  CASSANDRA. 

Ye  may  not  from  these  bowers 
Gather  the  trampled  flowers 
To  wreathe   sad  garlands  for   your  brethren'ti 
grave. 

XI. 

Away,  away !  the  gale 

Stirs  the  white-bosomed  sail ; 
Hence !  look  not  back  to  freedom  or  to  fame ; 

Labour  must  be  your  doom, 

Night-watchings,  days  of  gloom, 
The  bitter  bread  of  tears,  the  bi-idal  conc!j  of 
shame. 

xir. 

Even  now  some  Grecian  dame 

Beholds  the  signal-flame, 
And  waits,  expectant,  the  returning  fleet ; 

"  Why  lingers  yet  my  lord  ? 

Hath  he  not  sheathed  his  sword  ? 
Will  he  not  bring  my  handmaid  to  my  feet  ?"' 

XIII. 

Me,  too,  the  dark. Fates  call : 

Their  sway  is  over  all, 
Captor  and  captive,  prison-house  and  throne  : — 

I  tell  of  others'  lot ; 

They  hear  me,  heed  me  not! 
Hide,  angry  Phoebus,  hide  from  nie  mine  own  ! 

(1S30.) 


SIR   NICHOLAS    AT   MAESTON   MOOR.     385 


SIR  NICHOLAS  AT  MARSTON"  MOOR. 

To  horse,  to  horse,  Sir  Nicholas!  the  darion'r, 
note  is  high  ; 

To  horse,  to  horse,  Sir  Nicholas  !  the  huge  drum 
makes  reply : 

Ere  this  hath  Lucas  marched  with  his  gallant 
cavaliers, 

And  the  bray  of  Eupert's  trumpets  grows  faint- 
er on  our  ears. 

To  horse,  to  horse,  Sir  Nicholas  !  White  Guv  is 
at  the  door, 

And  the  vulture  Avhets  his  beak  o'er  the  field  of 
Marston  Moor. 

Up  rose  the  Ladj  Alice  from  her  brief  and  bro- 
ken prayer, 

And  she  brought  a  silken  standard  down  the 
narrow  turret-stair. 

Oh,  many  were  the  tears  that  those  radiant  eyes 
had  shed, 

As  she  worked  the  bright  word  "Glory"  in  the 
gay  and  glancing  thread ; 

And  mournful  was  the  smile  that  o'er  tliose 
beauteous  features  ran. 

As  she  said,  "  It  is  your  lady's  gift,  unfurl  it  in 
the  van." 


386     SLR  NICHOLAS   AT   MAKSTON   MOOK. 

"  It  shall  flutter,  noble  wench,  where  the  best 

and  boldest  ride, 
Through  the  steel-clad  files  of  Skippon  and  the 

black  dragoons  of  Pride ; 
The  recreant  soul  of  Fairfax  wiU  feel  a  sicklier 

qualm. 
And  the  rebel  lips  of  Oliver  give  out  a  louder 

psalm, 
When  they  see  my  lady's  gewgaw  flaunt  bravely 

on  their  wing. 
And  hear  her  loyal  soldiers'  shout,  for  God  and 

for  the  King!" — 

'Tis  noon ;  the  ranks  are  broken  along  the  royal 

line; 
They  fly,  the  braggarts  of  the  Court,  the  bullies 

of  the  Ehine : 
Stout  Langley's  cheer  is  heard  no  more,  and 

Astley's  helm  is  down. 
And  Eupert  sheathes  his  rapier  with  a  curse  and 

with  a  frown ; 
And  cold  Newcastle  mutters,  as  he  follows  in 

the  flight, 
"The  German  boar  had  better  far  have  supped 

in  York  to-night." 

The  Knight  is  all  alone,  his  steel  cap  cleft  in 

twain, 
His  good  buff  jerkin  crimsoned  o'er  with  many 

a  gory  stain  ; 


SLK   NICHOLAS    AT   MAK3T0N    MOOR.     387 

But  still  he  waves  the  standard,  and  cries,  amid 

the  rout — 
"  For  Church  and  King,  fair  gentlemen,  spur  on 

and  fight  it  out!" 
And  now  he  wards  a  Eoundhead's  pike,  and 

now  he  hums  a  stave, 
And  here  he  quotes  a  stage-plaj,  and  there  he 

fells  a  knave. 

Good  speed  to  thee,  Sir  Nicholas !  thou  hast  no 

thought  of  fear ; 
Good  speed  to  thee.  Sir  Nicholas!  hut  fearful 

odds  are  here. 
The  traitors  ring  thee  round,  and  with  every 

hlow  and  thrust, 
"Down,  down,"  they  cry,  "with  Belial,  down 

with  him  to  the  dust !" 
"  I  would,"  quoth  grim  old  Oliver,  "that  Belial's 

trusty  sword 
This  day  were  doing  battle  for  the  Saints  and 

for  the  Lord!" 

The  Lady  Alice  sits  with  her  maidens  in  her 

bower ; 
The  gray-haired  warden  watches  on  the  castle's 

highest  tower. — 
"What  news,   what  news,   old    Anthony?" — 

"  The  field  is  lost  and  won  ; 


388     SIR   NICHOLAS    AT    MAE3T0N    MOOK. 

The   ranks  of  war  are  melting  as   the  mists 

beneath  the  sun ; 
And  a  wounded  man  speeds  hither, — I  am  old 

and  cannot  see, 
Or  sure  I  am  that  sturdy  step  my  master's  step 

should  be." — 


"  I  brmg  thee  back  the  standard,  from  as  rude 

and  rough  a  fray 
As  e'er  was  proof  of  soldier's  tliews,  or  theme 

for  minstrel's  lay. 
Bid  Hubert  fetch  the  silver  bowl,  and  liquor 

quantum  svff. ; 
I'll  make  a  shift  to  drain  it,  ere  I  part  with  boot 

and  buff; 
Though  Guy  through  many  a  gaping  wound  is 

breathing  out  his  life. 
And  I  come  to  thee  a  landless  man,  my  fond 

and  faithful  wife ! 

"  Sweet,  we  will  fill  our  money-bags,  and  freight 

a  ship  for  France, 
And  mourn  in  merry  Paris  for  this  poor  realm's 

mischance ; 
Or,  if  the  worst  betide  me,  why,  better  axe  or 

rope, 
Than  life  with  Lenthal  for  a  king,  and  I'eters 

for  a  pope ! 


LAMENT   FOR   BOTH  WELL   BEIGG.         389 

Alas,  alas,  my  gallant  Guy  ! — out  on  the  crop- 
eared  boor, 

That  sent  me  with  my  standard  on  foot  from 
Marston  Moor  I" 

(1S30.) 


THE   COVENANTER'S   LAMENT    FOR 
BOTHWELL  BRIGG. 

The  men  of  sin  prevail ! 
Once  more  the  prince  of  this  world  lifts  his  horn : 
Judah  is  scattered  as  the  chaff  is  borne 

Before  the  stormy  gale. 

"Where  are  orir  brethren  ?  where 
The  good  and  true,  the  terrible  and  fleet? 
They  whom  we  loved,  with  whom  we  sat  at  meat, 

"With  whom  we  kneeled  in  prayer  ? 

Mangled  and  marred  they  lie, 
Upon  the  bloody  pillow  of  their  rest  : 
Stern  Dalzell  smiles,  and  Clavers  with  a  jest 

Spurs  his  fierce  charger  by. 


890        LAMENT   FOE   BOTHWELL    BRIGG. 

So  let  our  foes  rejoice ; — 
We  to  the  Lord,  who  hears  their  impious  boasts, 
"Will  cull  for  comfort ;  to  the  God  of  Hosts 

We  wUl  lift  up  our  voice. 

Give  ear  unto  our  song ; 
For  we  are  wandering  o'er  our  native  land, 
As  sheep  that  have  no  shepherd ;  and  the  hand 

Of  wicked  men  is  strong. 

Only  to  Thee  we  bow. 
Our  lips  have  drained  the  fury  of  Thy  cup ; 
And  the  deep  murmurs  of  our  hearts  go  up 

To  Heaven  for  vengeance  now. 

Avenge, — oh,  not  our  years 
Of  pain  and  wrong ;  the  blood  of  martyrs  shed ; 
The  ashes  heaped  upon  the  hoary  head ; 

The  maiden's  silent  tears ; 

The  babe's  bread  torn  away ; 
The  harvest  blasted  by  the  war-steed's  hoof ; 
The  red  flame  wreathing  o'er  the  cottage  roof; 

Judge  not  for  these  to-day ! 

Is  not  Thine  own  dread  rod 
Mocked  by  the  proud,  Thy  holy  Book  disdained, 
Thy  name  blasphemed,  Thy  temple  courts  pro- 
faned? 

Avenge  Thyself,  0  Godl 


LAMENT   FOK   BOTHWELL   BRIGG.       391 

Break  Pharaoh's  iron  crown  ; 
Bind  with  new   chains  their  nobles  and  their 

kings ; 
"Wash  from  Thine  house  the  blood  of  unclean 
things ; 
And  hurl  their  Dagon  down ! 

Come  in  Thine  own  good  time ! 
We  will  abide :  we  have  not  turned  from  Thee  ; 
Though  in  a  world  of  grief  our  portion  be. 

Of  bitter  grief  and  crime. 

Be  Thou  our  guard  and  guide  ! 
Forth  from  the  spoiler's  synagogue  we  go, 
That  we  may  worship  where  the  torrents  flow, 

And  where  the  whirlwinds  ride. 

From  lonely  rocks  and  caves 
"We  will  pour  forth  our  sacrifice  of  prayer. — 
On,  brethren,  to  the  mountains !     Seek  we  there 

Safe  temples,  quiet  graves  I 

(1S30.) 


392  STANZAS. 


STANZAS, 

WRITTEN    TTNDEE   A   PICTURE   OF    KTKG's    CCLI.EGH 
CHAPEL,    CAMBRIDGE. 

EXTEACTED  rEOM   AN   ALBUM  IN   DETONSHir.E. 

Most  beautifnl ! — I  gaze  and  gaze 

In  silence  on  the  glorious  pile ; 
And  the  glad  thoughts  of  other  days 

Come  thronging  back  the  while. 
To  me  dim  Memory  makes  more  dear 

The  perfect  grandeur  of  the  shrine ; 
But  if  I  stood  a  stranger  here, 

The  ground  were  still  divine.  • 

Some  awe  the  good  and  wise  have  felt, 

As  reverently  their  feet  have  trod 
On  any  spot  where  man  hath  knelt. 

To  commune  with  his  God ; 
By  sacred  spring  or  haunted  weU, 

Beneath  the  ruined  temple's  gloom, 
Beside  the  feeble  hermit's  cell, 

Or  the  false  prophet's  tomb. 

But  when  was  high  devotion  graced 
"With  lovelier  dwelling,  loftier  throne. 

Than  here  the  limner's  art  hath  traced 
From  the  time-honoured  stone  ? 


LINES   FOK    "THE   KEEPSAKE."         393 

Tlic  Spirit  here  of  'WovsLip  seems 
To  hold  the  sonl  iu  willing  thrall, 

And  heavenward  hopes  and  holy  dreams 
Come  at  her  voiceless  call ; — 

At  midnight,  when  the  lonely  moon 

Looks  from  a  vapour's  silvery  fold ; 
At  morning,  when  the  sun  of  June 

Crests  the  high  towers  with  gold ; 
For  every  change  of  hour  and  form 

Makes  that  fair  scene  more  deeply  fair ; 
And  dusk  and  daybreak,  calm  and  storm, 

Are  all  religion  there. 

(1880.) 


LINES 

WniTTEN  FOE  A  BLANK  PAGE  OF  "  TIIK  KEEPSAKE.' 

Lady,  there's  fragrance  in  your  sighs, 

And  sunlight  in  your  glances  ; 
I  never  saw  such  lips  and  eyes 

In  pictures  or  romances ; 
And  Love  will  readily  suppose. 

To  make  you  quite  enslaving, 
That  you  have  taste  for  verse  and  prose, 

Hot  pressed,  and  line  engraving. 


394  ANTICIPATION. 

And  then,  you  waltz  so  like  a  Fay, 

That  roand  you  envy  rankles ; 
Your  partner's  head  is  turned,  tliey  say 

As  surely  as  his  ankles ; 
And  I  was  taught,  in  days  far  gone, 

By  a  most  prudent  mother, 
That  in  this  world  of  sorrow,  one 

Good  turn  deserves  another. 

I  may  not  win  you ! — that's  a  bore ! 

But  yet  'tis  sweet  to  woo  you ; 
And  for  this  cause, — and  twenty  more, 

I  send  this  gay  book  to  you. 
If  its  songs  please  you, — by  this  light! 

I  will  not  hold  it  treason 
To  bid  you  dream  of  me  to-night, 

And  dance  with  me  next  season. 

(1880.) 


ANTICIPATION. 

"  On,  yes!  he  is  in  Parliament; 

He's  been  returning  thanks  ; 
You  can't  conceive  the  time  he's  spent 

Already  on  his  franks. 


AJSTICrPATION.  395 

He'll  think  of  nothing,  night  and  day, 

But  place,  and  the  gazette:" 
No  matter  what  the  people  say, — 

You  won't  believe  them  yet. 

"  He  filled  an  albnm,  long  ago, 

"With  such  delicious  rhymes; 
Now  we  shall  only  see,  you  know, 

His  speeches  in  the  ' Times;' 
And  liquid  tone  and  beaming  brow, 

Bright  eyes  and  locks  of  jet, 
He'll  care  for  no  such  nonsense  now :" — 

Oh !  don't  believe  them  yet ! 

"  I  vow  he's  turned  a  Goth,  a  Hun, 

By  that  disgusting  Bill ; 
He'll  never  make  another  pun  ; 

He's  danced  his  last  quadrille. 
"We  shall  not  see  him  flirt  again 

"With  any  fair  coquette ; 
He'll  never  laugh  at  Drury  Lane." — 

Psha ! — don't  believe  them  yet. 

"  Last  week  I  heard  his  uncle  boast 

He's  sure  to  have  the  seals ; 
I  read  it  in  the  '  Morning  Post' 

That  he  has  dined  at  Peel's; 
You'll  never  see  him  any  more. 

He's  in  a  ditlerent  set ; 


396  STANZAS. 

He  cannot  eat  at  half-past  four  :" — 
No? — don't  believe  them  yet. 

''In  short,  he'll  soon  be  false  and  cold, 

And  infinitely  wise ; 
He'll  grow  next  year  extremely  old, 

He'll  tell  enormous  lies ; 
He'll  learn  to  flatter  and  forsake, 

To  feign  and  to  forget :" — • 
Oh,  whisper — or  my  lieart  will  break — 

You  won't  believe  them  yet ! 

(1830.) 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN   IN   LADY   MTRTLE's   BOCOAOCIO. 
I. 

Iif  these  gay  pages  there  is  food 
For  every  mind,  and  every  mood, 

Fair  Lady,  if  you  dare  to  spell  them  : 
Now  merriment,  now  grief  prevails  ; 
But  yet  the  best  of  all  the  tales 

Is  of  the  young  group  met  to  tell  them. 


STAKZAS.  397 

n. 

Oh,  was  it  not  a  pleasant  thonglit, 
To  set  the  pestilence  at  nanght, 

Chatting  among  sweet  streams  and  flowers  ; 
Of  jealous  husbands,  fickle  wives. 
Of  all  the  tricks  which  Love  contrives. 

To  see  through  veils,  and  talk  through  tow- 
ers? 

in. 

Lady,  they  say  the  fearful  guest, 
Onward,  still  onward,  to  the  west, 

Poised  on  his  sulphurous  wings,  advances  ; 
Who,  on  the  frozen  river's  banks. 
Has  thinned  the  Russian  despot's  ranks, 

And  marred  the  might  of  Warsaw's  lances 


Another  year — a  brief,  brief  year ! 
And  lo  !  the  fell  destroyer  here, 

He  comes  with  all  his  gloomy  terrors  ; 
Then  Guilt  will  read  the  properest  books, 
And  Folly  wear  the  soberest  looks, 

And  Virtue  shudder  at  her  errors. 

T. 

And  there'll  be  sermons  in  the  street ; 
And  every  friend  and  foe  we  meet 
"Will  wear  the  dismal  garb  of  sorrow  ; 
Vol.  I.— 26 


398  STANZAS. 

And  quacks  "will  send  their  lies  about, 
And  wearj  Halford  will  find  out 
He  must  have  four  new  bays  to-morrow. 


VI. 

But  you  shall  fly  fron^  these  dark  signs, 
As  did  those  happy  Florentines, 

Ere  from  your  cheek  one  rose  is  faded ; 
And  hide  your  youth  and  loveliness 
In  some  bright  garden's  green  recess, 

By  walls  fenced  round,  by  huge  trees  shaded 

vn. 

There  brooks  shall  dance  in  light  along. 
And  birds  shall  trill  their  constant  song 

Of  pleasure,  from  their  leafy  dwelling ; 
You  shall  have  music,  novels,  toys  ; 
But  still  the  chiefest  of  your  joys 

Must  be,  fair  Lady,  story-telling. 


vin. 
Be  cautious  how  you  choose  your  men  ; 
Don't  look  for  people  of  the  pen, 

Scholars  who  read,  or  write  the  papers ; 
Don't  think  of  wits,  who  talk  to  dine. 
Who  drink  their  patron's  newest  wine. 

And  cure  their  patron's  newest  vapours. 


STANZAS.  399 

IX. 
Avoid  all  youths  who  toil  for  praise 
By  quoting  Liston's  last  new  phrase ; 

Or  sigh  to  leave  high  fame  behind  thera ; 
For  swallowing  swords,  or  dancing  jigs, 
Or  imitating  ducks  and  pigs  ; 

Take  men  of  sense, — if  you  can  find  thera. 


Live,  laugh,  tell  stories ;  ere  they're  told, 
New  themes  succeed  upon  the  old  ; 

New  follies  come,  new  faults,  new  fashions ; 
An  hour,  a  minute,  will  supply 
To  Thought  a  folio  history 

Of  blighted  hopes,  and  thwarted  passions. 


King  Death,  when  he  has  snatched  away 
Drunkards  from  brandy,  Dukes  from  play, 

And  Common-councilmen  from  turtle, 
Shall  break  his  dart  in  Grosvenor  Square, 
And  mutter,  in  his  fierce  despair, 

"  Why,  what's  become  of  Lady  Myrtle  ?" 

(1831.) 


400  LINES    IN   AN    ALBUM. 


LINES 

WEITTEIT     IN     AN    ALBTTM,    THE     GIFT     OF     QUEEJl 
ADELAIDE   TO   LADY   MAYO. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  and  bounteous  Fay 

Beside  a  cradle  sang  one  day ; 

The  mother  heard  not,  but  the  child 

In  her  glad  dream  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"  I  bring  thee  a  rose— a  rose  for  thee, 

The  sweetest  of  my  bower ; 
It  is  a  token  thou  shalt  be 

As  lovely  and  loved  a  flower : 
Thou  too  shalt  brightly  bloom,  and  wear 

In  future  years,  as  now, 
Deep  beauty  in  thy  sunny  hair, 

Blue  eyes,  and  tranquil  brow. 

"  I  bring  thee  a  lute — an  ivory  lute ; 

I  bring  it  for  a  sign 
That  Wit  shall  sue  with  an  anxious  suit 

For  a  look  or  a  word  of  thine. 
Grave  Science  at  thy  feet  shall  lay 

Whate'er  the  wise  have  known, 
And  Music  charm  thy  cares  away 

With  lier  most  delicious  tone. 


LINES   IN   AN   ALBUM.  401 

"  I  bring  thee  a  sceptre !  wake  and  gaze 

On  the  symbol  of  high  command: 
A  nation's  love,  in  after-days, 

Shall  trust  it  to  thy  hand, 
When  from  thy  home  thou  shalt  depart 

And  go  o'er  the  bounding  wave 
To  be  the  Bride  of  a  Monarch's  heart, 

The  Queen  of  the  free  and  brave. 

"  I  bring  thee  a  Book — a  holy  Book  : 

In  all  thy  grief  and  mirth 
It  is  a  spell  to  bid  thee  look 

Still  up  to  Heaven  from  earth, 
And  turn  to  Him  who  alone  forgives 

With  a  firm  and  faithful  trust, 
And  live  the  life  which  virtue  lives, 

And  die  as  die  the  just !" 

I  need  not  whisper  to  your  thought 
For  v\-hat  fair  child  those  gifts  were  wrougli', 
Nor  tell  how  true  our  English  eyes 
Have  found  the  Fairy's  prophecies. 

(1S31.) 


403  LINES   m   AN  ALBUM. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  SAME,  tTNDEE  A  PICTUEE  OF  THH 
DUCAL  PALACE  AT  HESSE  HOMBURG,  THE  EESI- 
DEXCE  OF  THE  PRINCESS  ELIZABETH,  DAITGIITEB 
OF    GEORGE   III. 

It  is  a  joyous  land,  I  guess ; 

The  sun  shines  bright,  the  breeze  roves  free ; 
And  Nature  flings  her  fairest  dress 

On  humble  herb  and  lofty  tree ; 
But  thou  wilt  think  in  those  far  bowers, 

With  half  a  smile,  and  half  a  sigh. 
Thy  childhood  wreathed  as  fragrant  flowers, 

And  laughed  beneath  as  warm  a  sky. 

And  proudly  o'er  those  poplars  tall 

And  tapering  firs  the  Palace  gleams; 
But  ah !  the  time-worn  Castle's  wall 

Is  stiU  remembered  in  thy  dreams ; 
And  that  broad  Terrace  still  is  dear, 

Where,  when  the  star  of  day  went  down, 
Thy  good  old  Sire  went  forth  to  hear 

Rich  blessings,  richer  than  his  crown. 

And  other  friends  are  round  thee  now 
Than  those  that  shared  thine  early  mirth ; 


LINES   UNDEK   A  PORTKAIT.         403 

And  thou  hast  newer  slaves  to  bow, 
And  foreign  lutes  to  hymn  thy  worth ; 

But  thou  wilt  never  quite  forget 

That  here,  where  first  thy  praise  was  heard, 

Thy  virtues  are  recorded  yet, 

Thy  name  is  yet  a  household  word. 

And  if  thou  ne'er  mayst  see  again 

The  white  cliffs  of  thy  fatherland, 
And  if  henceforth  we  seek  in  vain 

Thy  cheering  smile  and  bounteous  hand, — 
Thou  wilt  be  what  thou  wast  and  art, 

Where'er  thy  bark  may  chance  to  roam ; 
And  thou  wilt  keep  thine  English  heart. 

And  thou  wilt  love  thine  English  home ! 

(1881.) 


LINES 


WEITTEN     TJXUEE     A    PORTRAIT     OF     LORD     MAYO, 
DRAWN   BY   THE    QUEEN. 

A  COURTIER  of  the  nobler  sort, 
A  Christian  of  the  purer  school ; — 

Tory,  when  Whigs  are  great  at  Court, 
And  Protestant,  when  Papists  rule ; 


404  BEESTED   LODGE,    BOGNOE. 

Prompt  to  support  the  Monarch's  crown, 
As  prompt  to  dry  the  poor  man's  tears; 

Yet  fearing  not  the  Premier's  frown, 
And  seeking  not  the  rabble's  cheers ; 

Still  ready, — favoured  or  disgraced, — 
To  do  the  right,  to  speak  the  true ; — 

The  Artist  who  these  features  traced 
A  better  Subject  never  knew  ! 

(NOVEMBEE,  1833.) 


LINES 

WRITTEN   UNDER   A   VIEW   OF   EERSTED    LODGE, 
BOGNOR. 

If  e'er  again  my  wayward  fate 
Should  bring  me,  Lady,  to  your  gate, 
The  trees  and  flowers  might  seem  as  fair 
As  in  remembered  days  they  were ; 
But  should  I  in  their  loved  haunts  find 
The  friends  that  were  so  bright  and  kind  ? 

My  heart  would  seek  with  vain  regret 
Some  tones  and  looks  it  dreams  of  yet; 
I  could  not  follow  through  the  dance 
The  heroine  of  my  first  romance; 


BERSTED  LODGE,  BOQNOR.     405 

At  hi8  own  board  I  coiild  not  see 
The  kind  old  man  that  welcomed  me. 

Wlien  round  the  grape's  ricli  juices  pass, 
Sir  William  does  not  drain  his  glass; 
When  music  charms  the  listening  throng, 
"  0  Pescator''''  is  not  the  song; 
Queen  Mah  is  ageing  very  fast, 
And  Coelebs  has  a  wife  at  last. 

I  too  am  changed,  as  others  are; 

I'm  graver,  wiser,  sadder  far : 

I  study  reasons  more  than  rhymes. 

And  leave  my  Petrarch  for  the  "Times," 

And  turn  from  Laura's  auburn  locks 

To  ask  my  friend  the  price  of  stocks. 

A  wondrous  song  does  Memory  sing, 
A  merry — yet  a  mournful  thing ; 
When  thirteen  years  have  fleeted  by, 
'Twere  hard  to  say  if  you  or  I 
Would  gain  or  lose  in  smiles  or  tear^4,^ 
By  just  forgetting  thirteen  years. 

(1S83.) 


406       LATIN   HYMN   TO   THE   VIRGIN. 


LATIN  HYMN  TO  THE  VIRGIN. 

I. 

Virgin  Mother,  thou  hast  known 
Joy  and  sorrow  like  my  own  ; 
In  thy  arms  the  bright  Babe  lay, 
As  my  own  in  mine  to-day ; 

So  He  wept  and  so  He  smiled ; 

Ave  Mary !  guard  ray  child ! 


From  the  pains  and  perils  spread 
Eound  about  our  path  and  bed, 
Fierce  desires,  ambitious  schemes, 
Moody  doubts,  fantastic  dreams. 
Pleasures  idle,  passions  wild, 
Ave  Mary !  guard  my  cliild  I 

III. 

Malve  him  whatsoe'er  may  be 
Dearest  to  the  saints  and  thee ; 
Tell  him,  from  the  throne  above, 
Wliat  to  loathe  and  what  to  love; 
To  be  true  and  just  and  mild, 
Avo  Mary  I  teach  my  child  1 


THE    8AUBATH.  4U7 

IV. 

By  the  wondrous  mercy  won 
For  the  world  by  thy  blest  Sou, 
By  the  rest  Ills  labours  wrought, 
By  the  bliss  His  tortures  bought. 

By  the  Heaven  He  reconciled, 

Ave  Mary !  bless  my  child ! 

V. 

If  about  his  after  fate 

Sin  and  sorrow  darkly  wait, 

Take  him  rather  to  thine  arms 

From  the  world  and  the  world's  harms ; 

Thus  unscathed,  thus  undefiled, 

Ave  Mary !  take  my  child ! 


THE  SABBATH. 

I. 

Foe  whom  was  the  Sabbath  made  \ 
It  brings  repose  and  rest ; 

It  hushes  Study's  aching  head, 
Ambition's  anxious  breast: 

The  slave  that  digs  the  mine. 
The  serf  that  ploughs  the  soil, 


408  THE  SABBATH. 

For  them  it  was  ordained  to  shine  ;— 
It  is  for  all  that  toil. 

n. 

For  whom  was  the  Sabbath  made  ? — 

It  opens  the  Book  of  Peace, 
Which  tells  of  flowers  that  never  fad^. 

Of  songs  that  never  cease : 
If  the  hopes  you  nursed  decline, 

If  the  friends  you  cherished  die, 
For  you  it  was  ordained  to  shine ; — 

It  is  for  all  that  sigh. 

III. 

For  whom  was  the  Sabbath  made?— 

It  calls  the  wretch  to  prayer, 
"Whose  soul  the  noonday  thoughts  upbraid 

And  the  midnight  visions  scare  : 
It  calls  thee  to  the  shrine ; 

Fear'st  thou  to  enter  in  ? 
For  thee  it  was  ordained  to  ehiae — 

It  is  for  all  that  sin. 


THE   NEWLY-WEDDED.  409 


THE  NEWLY- WEDDED. 

I. 

Now  the  rite  is  duly  done ; 

Now  the  word  is  spoken  ; 
And  the  spell  has  made  us  one 

Which  may  ne'er  be  broken  : 
Rest  we,  dearest,  in  our  home, — 

Roam  we  o'er  the  heather, — 
We  shall  rest,  and  we  shall  roam, 

Shall  we  not?  together. 

II. 
From  this  hour  the  summer  rose 

Sweeter  breathes  to  charm  us ; 
From  this  hour  the  winter  snows 

Lighter  fall  to  harm  us : 
Fair  or  foul — on  land  or  sea — 

Come  the  wind  or  weather, 
Best  and  Avorst,  whate'er  they  be, 

We  shall  share  together. 

III. 
Death,  who  friend  from  friend  can  part, 

Brother  rend  from  brother. 
Shall  but  link  us,  heart  and  heart, 

Closer  to  each  other : 


410  TO    HELEN. 

We  will  call  his  anger  play, 
Deem  Iiis  dart  a  feather, 

"When  we  meet  him  on  our  way 
Hand  in  hand  together. 

(1835.) 


TO   HELEN. 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  FIRST   LEAF   OF   KEBLE's  "CHRIS- 
TIAN YEAR,"  A  BIRTHDAY  PRESENT. 

My  Helen,  for  its  golden  fraught 

Of  prayer  and  praise,  of  dream  and  tho'.ight, 

Where  Poesy  finds  fitting  voice 

For  all  who  hope,  fear,  grieve,  rejoice, 

Long  have  I  loved,  and  studied  long. 

The  pious  minstrel's  varied  song. 

Whence  is  the  volume  dearer  now  ? 
There  gleams  a  smile  upon  your  brow, 
Wherein,  methinks,  I  read  how  well 
You  guess  the  reason,  ere  I  tell. 
Which  makes  to  me  the  simple  rhymes 
More  prized,  more  conned,  a  hundred  times. 


TO    HELEN.  411 

Ere  vanished  quite  the  dread  and  doubt 
Affection  ne'er  was  born  without, 
Found  we  not  here  a  magic  key 
Opening  thy  secret  soul  to  me  ? 
Found  we  not  here  a  mystic  sign 
Interpreting  thy  heart  to  mine  ? 

"What  sympathies  up-springing  fast 
Through  all  the  future,  all  tlie  jiast, 
In  tenderest  links  began  to  bind 
Spirit  to  spirit,  mind  to  mind, 
As  we,  together  wandering  o'er 
The  little  volume's  precious  store,  — 

Mused,  with  alternate  smile  and  tear. 
On  the  high  themes  awakened  here 
Of  fervent  hope,  of  calm  belief. 
Of  cheering  joy,  of  chastening  grief; 
The  trials  borne,  the  sins  forgiven, 
The  task  on  earth,  the  meed  in  heaven  ! 

My  Own !  oh,  surely  from  above 
Was  shed  that  confidence  of  love. 
Which,  in  such  happy  moments  nursed 
When  soul  with  soul  had  converse  first, 
Now  through  the  snares  and  storms  of  life 
Blesses  the  husband  and  the  wife ! 

(February  12,  ISSG.) 


^■^2  TO    HELEN. 


TO    HELEN. 

When  some  grim  sorceress,  wliose  skill 
Had  bound  a  sprite  to  work  her  wiil, 
In  mirth  or  malice  chose  to  ask 
Of  the  faint  slave  the  hardest  task, — 

She  sent  him  forth  to  gather  np 
Great  Ganges  in  an  acorn- cup, 
Or  heaven's  unnumbered  stars  to  bring 
In  compass  of  a  signet-ring. 

Thus  Helen  bids  her  poet  write 
The  thanks  he  owes  this  morning's  light; 
And  "  Give  me," — so  he  hears  her  say, — 
"Four  verses,  only  four,  to-day." 

Dearest  and  best !  she  knows,  if  Wit 
Could  ever  half  Love's  debt  acquit, 
Each  of  her  tones  and  of  her  looks 
Would  have  its  four,  not  lines,  but  books. 

(House  op  Commons, 
July  7, 1836.) 


SKETCH    OF    A    YOtTNG    LADY.  413 


SKETCH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY 

FIVE   MONTHS   OI.D. 

My  pretty,  budding,  breathing  flower, 

Rethinks  if  I,  to-morrow, 
Could  manage,  just  for  half  an  hour, 

Sir  Joshua's  brush  to  borrow, 
I  might  immortalize'  a  few 

Of  all  the  myriad  graces 
"Which  Time,  while  yet  they  all  are  new, 

"With  newer  still  replaces. 

Fd  paint,  my  child,  your  deep-blue  eyes. 

Their  quick  and  earnest  flashes ; 
I'd  paint  tlie  fringe  that  round  them  lies, 

The  fringe  of  long  dark  lashes ; 
I'd  di-aw  with  most  fastidious  care 

One  eyebrow,  then  the  other. 
And  tliat  fair  forehead,  broad  and  fair, 

The  forehead  of  your  mother. 

I'd  oft  retouch  the  dimpled  cheek 
"Where  health  in  sunshine  dances; 

And  oft  the  pouting  lips,  where  speak 
A  thousand  voiceless  fancies  ; 
Vol.  I.— 27 


411         SKETCH    OF    A   YOUJ^G    LADY. 

And  the  soft  neck  would  keep  me  long, 
The  neck,  more  smootli  and  snowy 

Than  ever  yet  in  schoolboy's  song 
Had  Caroline  or  Chloe. 

^ov  less  on  those  twin  rounded  arms 

My  new-found  skill  would  linger, 
Nor  less  upon  the  rosy  charms 

Of  every  tiny  finger ; 
Nor  slight  the  small  feet,  little  one, 

So  prematurely  clever 
That,  thougli  they  neither  walk  nor  run, 

I  think  tliey'd  jump  forever. 

But  then  your  odd  endearing  ways — 

What  study  e'er  could  catch  them  ? 
Your  aimless  gestures,  endless  plays — 

What  canvas  e'er  could  match  them  ? 
Your  lively  leap  of  merriment. 

Your  miirmur  of  petition. 
Your  serious  silence  of  content. 

Your  laugh  of  recognition. 

Here  were  a  puzzling  toil,  indeed. 
For  Art's  most  fine  creations  ! — 

Grow  on,  sweet  baby ;  we  will  need. 
To  note  your  transformations, 

No  picture  of  your  form  or  face. 
Your  waking  or  your  sleeping, 


SONNET.  4n 

But  that  which  Love  shall  daily  trace, 
And  trust  to  Memory's  keeping. 

Hereafter,  -when  revolving  years 

Have  made  you  tall  and  twenty, 
And  brought  you  blended  hopes  and  feai-s, 

And  sighs  and  slaves  in  plenty. 
May  those  who  watch  our  little  saint 

Among  her  tasks  and  duties,  • 
Feel  all  her  virtues  hard  to  paint, 

As  now  we  deem  her  beauties. 

(OCTOBEU  10,  1S3C.) 


SONNET 

TO    K.    C.    nir.DTAED. 

Pkofit  and  praise  attend  you,  wheresoe'er 
You  charm  the  country,  or  amaze  the  town, 
"With  flow  of  argument,  and  flow  of  gown ! 

I  will  not  here  forget  you ;  but  will  spare. 

Amidst  my  tranquil  joys,  a  wish  and  prayer 
That  you  may  win  quick  riches,  high  renown, — 
Hereafter,  better  gifts — more  like  my  own  1 

0  kindest  found,  when  kindness  was  most  rarel 


416  SONNET. 

When  I  recall  the  days  of  hope  and  fear 
In  which  I  first  dared  call  my  Helen  mine, 

Or  the  sweet  hour  when  first  upon  my  ear 
Broke  the  shrill  cry  of  little  Adeline, 

The  memory  of  your  friendship,  Friend  sincere, 
Among  such  memories  grateful  I  entwine. 

(October  15, 1836.) 


SONNET 

TO    B.    J.    M.    P. 


A  SAD  return,  my  Brother,  thine  must  he 
To  thy  void  home !  loosed  is  the  silver  chain, 
The  golden  bowl  is  broken ! — not  again 

Love's  fond  caress  and  Childhood's  earnest  glee 

After  dull  toil  may  greet  and  gladden  thee. 
How  shall  we  bid  the  mourner  not  complain, 
Not  mui-mur,  not  despond  ? — ah  me,  most  vain 

Is  sympathy,  how  soft  soe'er  the  key, 

And  argument,  how  grave  soe'er  the  tone ! 

In  our  still  chambers,  on  our  bended  knees, 
Pray  we  for  better  help !     There  is  but  One 

"Who  shall  from  sorrow,  as  from  sin,  release  : 
God  send  thee  peace,  my  Brother !  God  alono 

Guideth  the  fountains  of  eternal  peace. 

(October  19, 1836.) 


TO    HELEN.  417 


TO  HELEX, 

WITH    CRABBE's    poems — A    BIRTRDAT    PRESENT. 

Give  Crabbe,  dear  Helen,  on  your  shelf, 
A  place  by  Wordsworth's  mightier  self; 
In  token  that  your  taste,  self- wrought 
From  mines  of  independent  thought, 
And  shaped  by  no  exclusive  rule 
Of  whim  or  fashion,  sect  or  school, 
Can  honour  Genius,  whatsoe'er 
The  garb  it  chance  or  choose  to  wear. 

Nor  deem,  dear  Helen,  unallied 
The  bards  we  station  side  by  side  ; 
Difierent  their  harps, — to  each  his  own  ; 
But  both  are  true  and  pure  of  tone. 
Brethren,  methinks,  in  times  like  ours 
Of  misused  gifts,  perverted  powers, — 
Brethren  are  they,  whose  kindred  song 
Nor  hides  the  Eight,  nor  gilds  the  "Wrong, 

(Febetjaet  12, 183T.) 


4:18  TO    HELEN. 


TO  HELEN. 

What  pi-ayer,  clear  Helen,  shall  I  pray, 

On  this  my  brightest  holiday, 

To  the  great  Giver  of  all  good. 

By  whom  our  thoughts  are  understood— 

Lowly  or  lofty,  wild  or  weak — 

Long  ere  the  tardy  tongue  can  speak  ? 

For  yon,  my  treasure,  let  me  pray — 
That,  as  swift  Time  shall  steal  away 
Year  after  year,  you  ne'er  may  deem 
The  radiance  of  this  morning's  beam 
Less  happy — holy — than  you  know 
It  dawned  for  us  two  years  ago. 

And  for  our  infimts  let  me  pray — 
Our  little  precious  babes — that  they, 
Whate'er  their  lot  in  future  years, 
Sorrow  or  gladness,  smiles  or  tears, 
May  own  whatever  is,  is  just, 
And  learn  their  mother's  hope  and  trust. 

And  for  my  own  heart  let  me  pray 
That  God  may  mould  me  day  by  day, 


soNisrET.  419 

By  grace  descending  from  above, 
Moi-e  -worthy  of  the  joy  and  love 
Which  His  beneficence  divine  • 
On  this,  my  best  of  days,  made  mine. 

(July  T,  1S87.) 


SONNET 

WEITTEN     nr     THE     FIRST      LEAF      OF     LOCKIIART's 
"life    OF    SIR    WALTER    SCOTT." 

Lo  the  magician,  whose  enchantments  lend 
To  the  dim  past  a  fresh  and  fairy  light, 
"Who  malves  the  absent  present  to  our  sight, 

And  calls  the  dead  to  life !     Till  time  shall  end, 

O'er  him  the  grateful  Muses  shall  extend 
Unfading  laurels ;  yet  methinks,  of  right, 
With  holier  glory  shall  his  fame  be  bright, - 

Leal  subject,  honest  patriot,  cordial  friend. 

Of  such  a  spirit,  by  your  cheerful  tire 

This  record,  Helen,  welcome  shall  appear  ; 

To  which  your  husband-lover's  duteous  lyre, 
j!:5'ot  tuneless  yet,  sweet  Helen,  to  your  ear, 

A-dds  the  warm  wish  these  winter  eves  inspire, 
"  A  merry  Christmas,  and  a  glad  New  Year  1" 

(DEOEMliEK  20,  IS3T.) 


420        VEESES    IN   A   child's   BOOK, 


VERSES 

WRITTEN  IN  THE   FIKST    LEAF    OF    A   CHILd's    BO(iK, 
GIVEN    BY  TO    HER    GODSON,   AGED  FOl  K. 

My  little  Freddy,  when  yon  look 
Into  this  nice  new  story-book, 

Which  is  my  Christmas  present. 
You'll  find  it  full  of  verse  and  prose, 
xiud  pictures  too,  which  I  suppose 

Will  make  them  both  more  pleasant. 

Stories  are  here  of  girls  and  boys. 
Of  all  their  tasks,  aiid  all  their  toys. 

Their  sorrows  and  their  pleasures; 
Stories  of  cuckoos,  dogs,  and  bees, 
Of  fragrant  flowers  and  beauteous  trees— 

In  short,  a  hoard  of  treasures. 

When  you  have  spelled  the  volume  through, 
One  tale  will  yet  remain  for  you 

(I  hope  you'll  read  it  clearly) ; 
'Tis  of  a  godmarama,  who  proves 
By  such  slight  token,  that  she  loves 

Her  godchild  very  dearly. 

(Dkcbmbbr  25,  1S37.) 


TO   HELEN.  421 


•  TO  HELEN, 

WITU   A   SMALL   CANDLESTICK — A    BIKTJIDAY 
PEESENT, 

If,  wandering  in  a  wizard's  car 

Through  yon  blue  ether,  I  were  able 

To  fashion  of  a  little  star 

A  taper  for  my  Helen's  table, — 

"What  then?"  she  asks  me  with  a  laugh; — 
Why,  then,  with  all  Heaven's  lustre  glowing, 

It  would  not  gild  her  path  with  half 

The  light  her  love  o'er  mine  is  throwing  1 

(Febeuaet  13, 1838.) 


TO  HELEN, 

WITH   SOUTHEy's   poems. 

A  HAPPY  and  a  holy  day 

Is  this  alike  to  soul  and  sight ; 

With  cheerful  love  and  joyful  lay 
Would  I,  dear  Helen,  greet  its  light. 


422     THE    HOME    OF    HIS    CHILDHOOD. 

But  vain  the  purpose — very  vain ! 

I  cauuot  play  the  mmstrel's  part, 
When  recent  care  and  present  pgiin 

Untune  the  lyre,  iinnerve  the  heart. 

Yet  prize  these  tomes  of  golden  rhyme; 

And  let  them  tell  you,  in  far  years, 
"When  faint  the  record  traced  by  Time 

Of  brightest  smiles  or  saddest  tears — 

As  sunward  rose  the  Persian's  prayer, 

Though  clouds  might  dim  the  votary's  view, 

So  still,  through  doubt  and  grief  and  care, 
My  spirit,  Helen,  turned  to  you. 

(July  T,  183S.) 


THE  HOME  OF  HIS  CEILDHOOD. 

I. 

He  knows  that  the  paleness  still  grows  on  his 

cheek. 

He  feels  that  the  fever  still  burns  on  his  brow, 

And  what  in  his  thought,  in  his  dream,  does  he 

seek 

Far,  far  o'er  the  ocean  that  circles  him  now? 


THE    HOME    OF    HIS    CHILDHOOD.     423 

'Tis  the  Home  of  his  Childhood !  the  first  and  tlie 
best! 
Oh,  why  have,  you  hurried  him  oyer  the  wave, 
That  the  liand  of  the  stranger  may  tend  on  his 

rest, 
That  the  foot  of  the  stranger  may  tread  on  his 
grave  ? 

II. 

Here  the  son  may  be  brighter,  tlie  lieaven  more 
blue, 
But,  oh  1  to  his  eyes  they  are  joyless  and  dim ; 
Here  the  flowers  may  be  richer  of  perfume  and 
hue, — 
They  are  not  so  fair  nor  so  fragrant  to  him : 
'Tis  the  Home  of  his  Childhood !  Oh,  bear  him 
again 
To  the  play-haunted  lawn,  to  the  love-lighted 
room. 
That  his  mother  may  watch  by  his  pillow  of 
pain, 
That  his  father  may  whisper  a  prayer  o'er  his 
tomb  I 

(St.  Leonard'8-on-Sea, 
December  22,  1S3S.) 


424  TO    HELEN. 


TO  HELEN, 

WITH    A    DIARY,   A    BIETHDAT    PEESEXT. 

If  daily  to  these  tablets  fair 

My  Helen  shall  intrust  a  part 
Of  every  thought,  dream,  wish,  and  prayer, 

Born  from  her  head  or  from  her  heart — 

"Well  may  I  say  each  little  page 

More  precious  records  soon  will  grace, 

Than  ever  yet  did  bard  or  sage 
From  store  of  truth  or  fable  trace. 

Affection — friendship  here  will  glow. 
The  daughter's  and  the  mother's  love, 

And  chai'ity  to  man  below, 
And  piety  to  God  above. 

Such  annals,  artless  though  they  be. 
Of  all  that  is  most  pure  and  bright — 

Oh,  blessed  are  the  eyes  that  see ! 
More  blessed  are  the  hands  that  write! 

(February  12, 1S89.) 


TO    HELEN".  425 


TO  HELEN. 

Deaeest,  I  did  not  dream,  four  years  agi^, 

Wlien  tlirougli  your  veil  I  saw  your  briglit 
tear  shine, 
Caught  your  clear  whisper,  exquisitely  low, 

And  felt  your  soft  hand  tremble  into  mine. 
That  in  so  brief — so  very  brief  a  space, 

He,  who  in  love  both  clouds  and  cheers  our 
life, 
"Would  lay  on  you,  so  full  of  light,  joy,  grace, 

The  darker,  sadder  duties  of  the  wife, — 
Doubts,  fears,  and  frequent  toil,  and  constant 
care  , 

For  this  poor  frame,  by  sickness  sore  bestead  ; 
The  daily  tendance  on  the  fractious  chair, 

The  nightly  vigil  by  the  feverish  bed. 

Yet  not  unwelcomed  doth  this  morn  arise. 
Though  with  more  gladsome  beams  it  might 
have  shone : 
Strength  of  these  weak  hands,  light  of  these  dim 
eyes, 
In  sickness,  as  in  health, — bless  you,  My  Owu  ! 

(SuDBURT,  July  T,  1S89.) 

END    OF    VOL.    I. 


"VOLUME'  U. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOL.   II. 


POEMS    OF    LIFE    AND    MANNERS. 
PART   I. 

V*GK 

The  Eve  of  Battle ^1 

The  County  Ball 27 

To  Julio,  on  his  coming  of  Age 53 

To  Julia  peepaking  foe  uek  Fikst  Season  in  Town  58 

Lauea '^^ 

TiiE  Confession  of  Don  Cap.los To 

The  BACnELOR ^9 

Mareiage ^^ 

How  TO   RHYME   FOE  LOTE 92 

Changing  Quarters 9""^ 

Reminiscences  of  my  Youth 104 

BuuLY  Hall ,112 

Yale  ! 128 

PART  II. 

Ea-EET-DaY  CiLAllACTEES.     I.  The  Yioak       .  .  .        137  ' 

'^  "  II.  Qulnce  .        .        .        .141 

"  "         III.  The  Bellb  op  the  Ball- 

EooM     .       .        .        .145 
«  "         IV.  My  Partnee       .        .       .  15ft 

"  •'  V.  Portrait  of  a  Lady     .       164 

The  Childe's  Destiny 1^ 


±  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

Josephine 161 

The  Chant  op  the  Bkazen  1Ie\d 164 

Twenty-Eight  and  Twenty-Nine  ....       168 

Song  foe  the  Foueteentu  of  February        .       ,       .  172 

Apeil  Fools .175 

Good-Night  to  the  Season 179" 

Arrivals  at  a  Wateeing-Place 1S3 

The  Fancy  Ball 187 

A  Letter  op  Advice 198  ^ 

The  Talented  Man 197  -< 

Letters  from  Teignmouth.    I.  Ouk  Ball   .        .       .       200-^^ 
"  "  "  II.  Private  Theatkicals  .  204 

Tales  out  of  School 207 

Palinodia       .       .   ■ 209 

Utopia 213 

Marriage  Chimes 217 

School  and  School-Fellows 22t^" 

Peologue  to  "Tub  Honeymoon" 225 

POEMS   WRITTEN"  IN   EARLY   YOUTH. 

On  Pitt 2-31 

On  the  Departure  or  an  Old  IIoitsekeeper         .       .  232 
Valentines.    I.  Imitation  op  Metastasio's  Partenza     234 

"  11.  A  Madrigal 235 

*  III.  The  Dove 236 

IV.  The  Deities .237 

A  Faulb 238 

Lines  on  leaving  Otteeton 240 

Forget  Me  not 242 

Woman:  a  Fragment 243 

Munito 244 

Lines  written  in  Voltaire's  '•Chaui.es  XII."      .        .  245 

To  Florence 247 

Maeius  amidst  the  Ruins  of  Carthage  ....  260 

Kdwaed  Morton 251 

A.  Child's  Grave 25S 


CONTENTS. 


A  Letter  from  Eton 

Ox  THE  Deatu  op  a  School-Fellow 

BONKBT 


PAQB 

259 

.  2C2 
'2i>4 


PEIZE    POEMS,    TRANSLATIONS,    AND 
EPIGEAMS. 


Australasia 

Athens        

The  Ascent  of  Elijah 

Ptkauides  ^gyptiao^ 

The  Pyka-mids  op  Egypt 

In  Obitum  T.  F.  Mlddleton,  Episc.  Calctttteksi8 

Hdtdostan 

Epioeammaton  Libek  : 

EPfi  TE  AHTA  K'OYK  EPn.         a. 

(Tkanslatiom  of  the  Foregoing)  . 


ScBiBiMirs  Indocti  Doctiqi-e   . 

(Translation  of  the  Foregoing) 
NiroiB  Seeia  docunt  in  Mal^v.    I. 

(TeanslAtion  of  tub  Foregoing) 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

ScRiBiMus  Indocti  Doctique.       I. 

(Translation  op  the  Foregoing) 
II.      . 
Translations  : 

Song  op  the  Sailors  op  Salamis   . 

The  Death  of  A.iax 

.^NEAS   and   the   SllJYL 

TuE  Hoopoe's  Invocation  to  the  NiGmiNCALE 

Fko-m  Lucretius 

Stans  Pede  in  Uno 


267 
279 
292 
302 
303 
816 
317 


329 
330 
330 
-331 
831 
332 


334 
884 
S85 
335 
S3G 
337 


340 

;342 
343 
344 
r,47 


CONTENTS. 


SONGS. 


Lord  Eoland     . 

Tes  or  No 

Tell  Him  I  love  Him  yei 

"Where  is  Miss  Myrtle? 

The  CoNFESSioif 

Last  "Words   . 

The  KinNAWAT   . 

Long  Ago 

i  remember,  i  remember 

Bhadowb  op  Sadness  . 


CHARADES    AND    ENIGMAS 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

XI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIIL 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXL 

XXII. 


Hbart-pree    . 

The  Letter  A    . 

Good-Night    , 

A  Bottle    . 

Eainbow 

Firefly 

A  Chi.me  of  Bells 

Knighthood 

Heart-ache    . 

Death-'watoh     . 

Bowstring 

Moonlight 

Link-Boy 

Bell-rope  . 

bctteess 

Peacock 

Moonshine 

"Woden 

Necklace 

"Windlass    . 

Season     . 

Crossbow    . 


353 
354 
356 
357 
360 
361 
363 
364 
oC6 
367 


STl 
,  372 
373 
,  374 
376 
377 
378 
378 
380 
381 
383 
3S5 
386 
887 
888 
890 
891 


,  895 
895 
896 


CONTENTS. 


XXIII. 
XXIV. 
XXV. 

xxvr. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

-XXXI. 

XXXII. 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 

XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 


Donkey   . 
CouETSnip   . 
GLOW-Wonji 
Nightshade 
Wakden  . 
Bridegroom 
Nightcap 
Ca.mpbkll    . 

CAMBl'.IIKiE 

IIeirloom     . 
Footpad  . 

C0PBOAKD     . 

Uklmstonb 
ruineoeave 
Blockhead 
fosglovs 


PAGB 

397 

.  808 

S99 

•  400 
401 

,  402 

.  404 

405 
.  406 

407 
.  403 

409 
.  410 

411 
.  412 


POEMS  OF  LIFE  AND  MANNERS. 

PART  I. 

TStoit,  1820-1821.) 


POEMS 

EY 

WIXTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED. 


THE  EVE  OF  BATTLE. 

"  It  is  not  yet  near  day.     Come,  go  with  mo : 
Under  our  tents  Til  play  the  eaveadiopper." 

Shalxpeare. 

The  night  comes  on,  and  o'er  tlie  field 
The  moon  shines  bright  on  helm  and  shield; 
But  there  are  many  on  that  plain 
That  shall  not  see  her  light  again  ; 
She  loolvs  serene  on  countless  bands 
Of  mailed  breasts  and  steel-bound  hands  ; 
And  shows  a  thousand  faces  there 
Of  courage  high,  and  dark  despair, 
All  mingled  as  the  legions  lie 
Wrapped  in  their  dreams  of  victory. 
A  lowering  sound  of  doubt  and  fear 
Breaks  sudden  on  the  startled  ear. 
And  hands  are  clinched,  and  cheeks  are  pale, 
And  from  bright  blade  and  ringing  mail 


12  THE    EVE   OF   BATTL3. 

A  thousand  hands,  with  busy  toil, 
Clean  off  each  ancient  stain  or  soil ; 
Or  spots  of  blood,  v.-here  truth  may  read 
For  every  drop  a  guilty  deed. 

Survey  the  crowds  who  there  await, 
In  various  mood,  the  shock  of  fate  ; 
Who  burn  to  meet,  or  strive  to  shun, 
The  dangers  of  to-morrow's  sun. 
Look  on  the  husband's  anxious  tears, 
The  hero's  hopes,  the  coward's  fears, 
The  vices  that  e'en  here  are  found. 
The  follies  that  are  hovering  round  ; 
And  learn  that  (treat  it  as  you  will) 
Our  life  must  be  a  mockery  still. 
Alas !  the  same  caprices  reign 
In  courtly  hall,  or  tented  plain  ; 
And  the  same  follies  are  revealed 
In  ball-room,  and  in  battle-field. 

Turn  to  you  open  tent,  and  see 
Where,  drunk  with  youth  and  Burgundy, 
Reclines,  his  midnight  revel  o'er, 
The  beau  of  battle,  Theodore. 
Before  him,  on  his  desk,  he  lays 
The  billet-doux  of  other  days  ; 
And  while  he  reads  his  fancy  lingers 
On  those  white  hands  and  witching  f.ngora 
That  traced  the  darling  signatures — 


THE    EVE    OF   BATTLE.  13 

The  "  Yonrs  till  death,"  and  "Truly  yours :" 

And  as  by  turns  they  meet  his  eye, 

He  looks,  and  laughs,  and  throws  them  by, 

Until,  perchance,  some  magic  name 

Lights  up  a  spark  of  former  flame  ; 

And  then  he  ponders,  in  his  trance, 

On  Mary's  love-inspiring  glance. 

On  Chloe's  eye  of  glittering  fire, 

And  Laura' s  look  of  fond  desire. 

Poor  Theodore !  if  valiant  breast. 

And  open  heart,  and  song,  and  jest, 

And  laughing  lip,  and  auburn  hair, 

And  vow  sent  up  by  lady  fair, 

Oan  save  a  youthful  warrior's  life, — 

Thou  fall'st  not  in  to-morrow's  strife. 

Look  yonder  ! — on  the  dewy  sward 
Tom  "Wittol  lies— a  brother  bard  ; 
He  lies  and  ponders  on  the  stars. 
On  virtue,  genius,  and  the  wars  ; 
On  dark  ravines,  and  woody  dells, 
On  mirth  and  muses,  shot  and  shells  ; 
On  black  mustachios,  and  White  Surrey, 
On  rhyme  and  sabres — death  and  Murray  ; 
Until  at  last  his  fancy  glows 
As  if  it  felt  to-morrow's  blows; 
Anticipation  fires  his  brain 
With  fights  unfought,  unslaughtered  slain  ; 
And  on  the  fray  that  is  to  he 


1-i  THE    EYE    OF   BATTLE. 

Comes  forth  a  Dirge  or  Elegy ; 
And  if  lie  meets  no  heavier  harm 
To-morrow,  from  a  foemau's  arm, 
Than  cracked  cuirass,  or  broken  head. 
He'll  hasten  from  his  fever's  bed, 
And,  just  broke  loose  from  salve  and  lint, 
Eush,  like  a  hero,  into  print; 
Heading  his  light  and  harmless  prattle— 
"  Lines  written  on  a  field  of  battle." 
Thou  favoured  bard,  go  boldly  on; 
The  Muse  shall  guard  her  darling  son  ; 
And  when  the  musket's  steady  aim 
Is  levelled  at  the  pet  of  fame. 
The  Muse  shall  check  the  impious  crime. 
And  shield  thee  with  a  ream  of  rhyme ; 
But  if  'tis  doomed,  and  fall  thou  must, 
Since  bards,  like  other  men,  are  dust. 
Upon  the  tomb  where  thou  shalt  sleep 
Phcebus  and  Mars  alike  shall  weep  ; 
And  he  that  loved,  but  could  not  save. 
Shall  write  "  Hie  jacet"  o'er  thy  grave. 

What  wight  is  that,  whose  distant  nose 
Gives  token  loud  of  deep  repose  ? 
What !  honest  Harry  on  the  ground  ? 
r  faith  thy  sleep  is  wondrous  sound, 
For  one  who  looks,  upon  his  waking, 
To  sleep  "the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking." 
But  rest  thee,  rest !  thou  merriest  soul 


THE    EVE    OF   BATTLE.  15 

That  ever  loved  the  circling  bowl ; 
I  look  upon  his  empty  cup, 
And  sudden  tears,  uncalled,  spring  up  ; 
Perchance  in  this  abode  of  pother 
Kind  Harry  may  not  drain  another  ; 
But  still  our  comrades  at  the  Bell 
On  Harry's  prowess  long  shall  tell. 
And  dignify,  with  well-earned  praise, 
The  revelry  of  other  days. 
And  then  the  merry  tale  will  run 
Of  many  a  wager  lost  and  won, 
On  many  a  jest,  and  many  a  song, 
And  many  a  peal  of  laughter  long, 
That  from  our  jovial  circle  broke 
At  Harry's  toast,  or  Harry's  joke; 
Again,  at  Fancy's  touch  restored, 
Our  old  sirloin  shall  grace  the  board ; 
Again,  at  Fancy's  touch,  shall  flow 
The  tap  we  drained  an  age  ago. 

And  thou,  the  soul  of  fun,  the  life 
Of  noisy  mirth,  and  playful  strife, 
Mayst  sleep,  in  Honour's  worm-worn  bed, 
The  dreamless  slumber  of  the  dead. 
But  oft  shall  one  sad  heart,  at  least, 
Think  on  the  smile  that  never  ceased 
Its  catching  influence,  till  the  earth 
Closed  o'er  the  lips  that  gave  it  birth. 
I'll  pour  upon  thy  tranquil  rest 


16  THE   EYE   OF   BATTLE. 

The  hallowed  bowl  of  Metis's  best ; 
And  recollect,  with  smile  and  sigh, 
Thy  "  beer  with  E,  and  bier  Avith  I." 

Dazzle  mine  eyes?  or  do  I  see 
Two  glorious  Suns  of  Chancery? 
The  pride  of  Law  appears  the  first, 
And  nest  the  pride  of  Moulsey  Hurst. 
Faithless  and  feeless,  from  the  bar 
Tim  Quill  is  come  to  practise  war  : 
Without  a  rival  in  the  ring. 
Brown  Eobert  "peels"  for  Church  and  King. 
Thus  ever  to  your  country's  lights 
Together  go,  ye  kindred  knights  ! 
Congenial  arts  ye  aye  pursued  ; 
"  DaylighV  ye  studied  to  exclude ; 
And  both  of  old  were  Icnoion  to  Crib, 
And  both  were  very  apt  iofil. 
Together  go ;  no  foe  shall  stand 
The  vengeance  of  our  country's  brand, 
When  on  his  ranks  together  spring 
Cross-luttocTcs  and  c^'oss-questioniug. 

Sir  Jacob  arming  !  what  despair 
Has  snatched  him  from  his  elbow-chair? 
And  hurried  from  his  good  old  wine 
The  bachelor  of  fifty-nine  ! 
What  mighty  cause  lias  torn  him  thus 
Unwilling  from  suburban  rus, 


THE   EYE   OF   BATTLE.  1  7 

Bade  him  desert  his  one-horse  chaise, 
His  old  companions,  and  "old  ways  ;" 
Give  up  his  Baccalaurean  tattle, 
And  quit  the  bottle  for  the  battle  ? 
Has  he  forgot,  in  martial  ardour, 
His  wig,  his  tea-pot,  and  his  larder  ? 
Has  he  forgot — ungrateful  Sub. — 
Champagne,  backgammon,  and — the  club? 
Has  he  forgot  his  native  earth, 
His  sofa,  and  his  decent  hearth  ? 
Has  he  forgot  his  homely  fare, 
And  her,  the  maid  with  yellow  hair, 
That  dressed  the  meat,  and  spread  the  board, 
Laid  fuel  on  the  fire,  and  poured. 
In  stream  as  sparkling  as  her  eye, 
From  its  green  goal  the  Burgundy  ? 
That  Hebe,  in  thy  native  town, 
Looks  from  her  latticed  window  down, 
And,  when  the  newsman  paces  by, 
Runs,  with  a  sharp  and  fearful  cry. 
And  cheek  all  pale,  and  eye  all  wet. 
To  seek  thy  name  in  the  Gazette. 
What  fate  has  bid  her  master  roam, 
An  exile,  from  his  cheerful  home? 
What!  has  his  landlord  turned  him  out? 
Is  he  gone  mad  with  love — or  gout? 
Has  Death  imposed  his  finger  bony 
Upon  his  mistress — or  his  crony? 
Have  sober  matrons  ceased  to  praise 
YoT..  XL— 2 


18  THE    ETE   OF    BATTLE. 

The  lover  of  their  youthful  days  ? 
Are  belles  less  eager  to  command, 
With  wink  and  smile,  his  ready  hand  ? 
Fears  he  the  sudden  dissolution 
Of  club-house — or  of  constitution  ? 
Has  the  last  pipe  of  hock  miscarried  ? 
Has 1  forget,  last  week  he — married. 

Thou,  too,  thy  brilliant  helm  must  don, 
Etona's  wild  and  wayward  son, 
Mad,  merry  Charles.     While,  beardless  yet, 
Thou  look'st  upon  thy  plume  of  jet. 
Or  smilest  as  the  clouds  of  night 
Are  drifted  back  by  morning's  light, 
Thy  boyish  look,  thy  careless  eyes. 
Might  wake  the  envy  of  the  wise. 
Six  months  have  passed  since  thou  didst  rove. 
Unwilling,  through  Etona's  grove. 
Trembling  at  many  an  ancient  face 
That  met  thee  in  that  holy  place ; 
To  speak  the  plain  and  honest  truth, 
Thou  wast  no  scholar  in  thy  youth. 
But  now  go  forth — broke  loose  from  school, 
Kill  and  destroy  by  classic  rule, 
Or  die  in  fight,  to  live  in  story. 
As  valiant  Hector  did  before  ye.    . 
On !  on !  take  forts,  and  storm  positions, 
Break  Frenchmen's  heads — instead  of  Prisciau's, 
And  seek  in  death  and  conflagration 


THE    EVE    OF    BATTLE.  19 

A  gradus  to  thy  reputation. 
Yet  when  the  war  is  loud  and  high, 
Tliine  old  mistakes  will  round  thee  fly ; 
And  still,  in  spite  of  all  thy  care, 
False  quantities  will  haunt  thee  there, 
For  thou  wilt  make,  amidst  the  thronj)^, 
Or  (^(tji]  short,  or  aXeog  long. 

Methinks  I  know  that  figure  bold, 
And  stalwart  limbs  of  giant  mould ! 
'Tis  he — I  now  liis  ruddy  face, 
My  tried,  staunch  friend,  Sir  Matthew  Chase. 
His  snore  is  loud,  his  slumber  deep, 
Yet  dreams  are  with  him  in  his  sleep, 
And  Fancy's  visions  oft  recall 
The  merry  Hunt,  and  jovial  Hall — 
And  oft  replace  before  his  sight 
The  bustle  of  to-morrow's  fight. 
In  swift  succession  o'er  his  brain 
Come  fields  of  corn,  and  fields  of  slain  ; 
And,  as  the  varying  image  burns. 
Blood  and  blood-horses  smoke  by  turns ; 
The  five-barred  gate,  and  muddy  ditch, 
Smoleusko,  and  "the  spotted  bitch," 
Parisian  puppies — English  dogs, 
"Begar"  and  "damme," — beef  and  frogs, 
la  strange,  unmeaning  medley  fly 
Before  poor  Nimrod's  wandering  eye. 
He  speaks !  what  murmuring,  stifled  sounds 


20  THE    EVE   OE   BATTLE. 

Burst  from  his  throat :   "  Wliy,  madam !  zounds ! 
Who  scared  me  with  that  Gorgon  face? 
I  thought  I  saw  my  Lady  Chase." 

And  thou,  too,  Clavering — Humour's  son ! 
Made  up  of  wisdom  and  of  fun ! 
Medley  of  all  that's  dark  and  clear, 
Of  all  that's  foolish,  all  that's  dear; 
Tell  me,  what  brings  thee  here  to  die. 
Thou  prince  of  eccentricity  ? 
Poor  Arthur !  in  his  childhood's  day 
He  cared  so  little  for  his  play, 
And  wore  so  grave  and  prim  a  look, 
And  cried  so  when  he  missed  his  book, 
That  aunts  were  eager  to  presage 
The  glories  of  his  riper  age ; 
And  fond  mamma  in  him  foresaw 
The  bulwark  of  the  British  law. 
And  Science,  from  her  lofty  tliroue. 
Looked  down  and  marked  him  for  her  own. 
Ah !  why  did  Flattery  come  at  school 
To  tinge  him  with  a  shade  of  fool  1 
Alas!  what  clever  plans  were  crossed! 
Alas!  how  wise  a  judge'  was  lost! 
Without  a  friend  to  check  or  guide. 
He  hurried  into  fashion's  tide, 
He  aped  each  folly  of^the  throng. 
Was  all  by  turns,  and  nothing  long ; 
Through  varying  tastes  and  modes  he  flew, 


THE    EVE    OF   BATTLE.  21 

Dress — 'boxing — racing — dice — Virtti; 

!N"ow  looking  blue  in  sentimentals, 

No^-  looking  red  in  regimentals, 

iKow  impudent,  and  now  demure, 

iS'ow-  blockhead,  and  now  connoisseur, 

Ifow  smoking  at  "The  Jolly  Tar," 

Now  talking  Greek  with  Doctor  Parr ; 

A  friend  by  turns  to  saints  and  sinners, 

Attending  lectures,  plays,  and  dinners, 

The  Commons'  House,  and  Common  Halls, 

Chapels  of  Ease,  and  TattersaU's ; 

Skilful  in  fencing  and  in  fist. 

Blood — critic — jockey — methodist; 

Causeless  alike  in  joy  or  sorrow, 

Tory  to-day,  and  Whig  to-morrow, 

All  habits  and  all  shapes  he  wore. 

And  loved,  and  laughed,  and  prayed,  and  swore : 

And  now  some  instantaneous  freak, 

Some  peevish  whim,  or  jealous  pique, 

Has  made  the  battle's  iron  shower 

The  hobby  of  the  present  hour. 

And  bade  him  seek,  in  steel  and  lead, 

An  opiate  for  a  rambling  head. 

A  cannon-ball  will  prove  a  pill 

To  lull  what  nothing  else  can  still ; 

And  I,  that  prophesy  his  doom, 

"Will  give  him  all  I  can — a  tomb, 

And  o'er  a  pint  of  hiilf-nnd-hdf. 

Compose  poor  Arthur's  epitaph : — 


22  THE    EVE    OF   BATTLE. 

"  Here,  joined  in  death,  th'  observer  sees 

Plato — and  Alcibiades ; 

A  mixture  of  the  grave  and  funny, 

A  famous  dish  of  Salmagundi." 

Allan  M'Gregor!  from  afar 
I  see  him,  midst  the  ranks  of  war, 
That  all  around  are  rising  fast 
From  slumbers  that  may  be  their  last ; 
I  know  him  by  his  Highland  plaid. 
Long  borne  in  foray  and  in  raid, 
His  scarf,  all  splashed  with  dust  and  gore, 
His  nodding  plume,  and  broad  claymore ; 
I  know  him  by  that  eagle  eye, 
Where  foemen  read  their  destiny ; 
I  know  him  by  that  iron  brow 
That  frowns  not,  burns  not,  quails  not,  now, 
Though  life  and  death  are  with  the  ray 
That  redly  dawns  upon  to-day. 
Woe  to  the  wretch  whose  single  might 
Copes  with  dark  Allan  in  the  fight ; 
He  knows  not  mercy — knows  not  fear; 
The  pibroch  has  to  Allan's  ear 
A  clearer  and  a  sweeter  note 
Than  mellow  strains  that  blithely  float 
From  lyre  or  lute,  in  courtly  throng. 
Where  Beauty  smiles  upon  the  song. 
Of  artful  wiles  against  his  foe 
Nothing  he  knows,  or  cares  to  know ; 


THE*  EVE   OF   BATTLE.  23 

Far  less  he  reeks  of  polished  arts, 

The  batteries  in  the  siege  of  hearts. 

And  hence  the  minions  of  the  ton, 

While  fair  and  foolish  dames  look  on, 

Lang-h  at  Old  Allan's  awkward  bow, 

His  stern  address,  and  haughty  brow. 

Langh  they? — when  sounds  the  hollow  drum, 

And  banded  legions  onward  come, 

And  life  is  won  by  ready  sword, 

By  strength  to  strike,  and  skill  to  ward. 

Those  tongues,  so  brave  in  woman's  war, 

Those  cheeks,  unstained  by  scratch  or  scar, 

Shall  owe  their  safety  in  the  fight 

To  hoary  Allan's  arm  of  might. 

Close  to  the  Clansman's  side  is  seen 
Dame  Fortune's  soldier,  James  M'Lean. 
I  know  him  well — no  novice  he 
In  warfare's  murderous  theory ; 
Amidst  the  battle's  various  sound, 
"While  bullets  flew  like  hail  around, 
M'Lean  was  born ;  in  scenes  like  this 
He  passed  his  earliest  hours  of  bliss; 
Cradled  in  war,  the  fearless  child 
Looked  on  the  scene  of  blood,  and  smiled ; 
Toyed  with  the  sabre  of  the  Blues 
Long  ere  he  knew  its  hellish  use ; 
His  little  fingers  loved  to  feel 
The  bayonet's  bright  point  of  steel, 


24  THE    EVE    OE   BATTLE. 

Or  made  his  father's  helmet  ring 

"With  beating  up — "  God  save  the  King!" 

Those  hours  of  youthful  glee  are  fled ; 

The  thin  gray  hairs  are  on  his  head ; 

Of  youth's  hot  current  naught  remains 

Within  the  ancient  warrior's  veins. 

Yet,  vrhen  he  hears  the  battle-cry, 

His  spirit  beats  as  wild  and  high 

As  on  the  day  that  saw  him  wield 

His  virgin  sword  on  battle-field ; 

The  eve  on  which  his  comrades  found  him, 

"With  England's  colours  wrapped  around  him, 

His  face  turned  upwards,  and  his  hand 

Still  twined  around  his  trusty  brand, 

As,  spent  with  wounds,  and  weak  with  toil. 

He  lay  upon  the  bloody  soil. 

E'en  now,  though  swift  advancing  years 

Might  well  decline  this  life  of  fears. 

Though  the  deep  scars  upon  his  breast 

Show  claim  to  honourable  rest, 

He  will  not  quit  what  time  has  made 

His  joy,  his  habit,  and  his  trade. 

He  envies  not  the  peasant's  lot. 

His  cheerful  hearth,  and  humble  cot ; 

Encampments  have  to  him  become 

As  constant,  and  as  dear  a  home. 

Such  are  the  hearts  of  steel,  whom  War 
Binds  in  their  cradle  to  his  car, 


THE   EVE    OF   BATTLE.  25 

And  leaves  them  in  their  hxtter  day, 
With  honour,  medals,  and  half-pay. 
Burdened  with  all  the  cares  of  life. 
Repentance — asthma — and  a  wife. 

And  what  am  I,  who  thus  can  choose 
Such  subject  for  so  light  a  muse? 
Who  wake  the  smile,  and  weave  the  rhyme 
In  such  a  scene,  at  such  a  time  ? 
Mary,  Avhose  pure  and  holy  kiss 
Is  still  a  cherished  dream  of  bliss, 
When  last  I  saw  thy  bright  blue  eye, 
And  heard  thy  voice  of  melody, 
And  felt  thy  timid,  mild  caress, 
I  was  all  hope — all  joyonsness! 
We  parted — and  the  moiTow's  sun — 
O  God !  my  bliss  was  past  and  done ; 
The  lover's  hope,  the  husband's  vow. 
Where  were  they  then?  ah  I  where  wert  Ihou? 

Mary!  thou  vision  loved  and  wej>t. 
Long  years  have  passed  since  thou  hast  slept, 
liemoved  from  gaze  of  mortal  eye, 
The  dreamless  sleep  of  those  that  die : 
Long  years!  yet  has  not  passed  away 
The  memory  of  that  fatal  day 
When  all  thy  young  and  faded  grace 
Before  me  lav  in  Death's  embrace. 


26  THE    EVE    OF    BATTLE. 

A  throb  of  madness  and  of  xjain 
Shot  through  my  heart  and  through  my  brain  ; 
I  felt  it  then,  I  feel  it  now. 
Though  time  is  stamped  upon  my  brow ; 
Though  all  my  veins  grow  cold  with  age, 
And  o'er  my  memory's  fading  page 
Oblivion  draws  her  damning  line, 
And  blots  all  images — save  thine. 

Thou  left'st  me— and  I  did  become 
An  alien  fi-om  my  house  and  home ; 
A  phantom  in  life's  busy  dream ; 
A  bubble  on  misfortune's  stream ; 
Condemned  through  varying  scenes  to  rove, 
With  naught  to  hope,  and  naught  to  love ; 
No  inward  motive,  that  can  give 
Or  fear  to  die,  or  wish  to  live. 

Away  I  artvay !  Death  rides  the  breeze ! 
There  is  no  time  for  tlioughts  like  these ; 
Hark!  from  the  foeman's  distant  camp 
I  hear  their  charger,s'  sullen  tramp ; 
On!  valiant  Britons,  to  the  fight! 
On !  for  St.  George,  and  England's  right  I 
Green  be  the  laurel — bright  the  meed, 
■  Of  those  that  shine  in  martial  deed ! 
Short  be  the  pang — swift  pass  the  breath, 
Of  those  that  die  a  Soldier's  death. 


THE    COUNTY   BALL.  27 


THE  COUNTY  BALL. 

"Busy  people,  great  and  small, 
Awkward  dancers,  short  and  tall, 
Ladies,  fighting  which  shall  call. 
Loungers,  pertly  quizzing  all." 

Anon. 

Tins  is  a  night  of  pleasure !     Care, 
I  shake  thee  from  me  !  do  not  dare 
To  stir  from  out  thy  murky  cell, 
"Where,  in  tlieir  dark  recesses,  dwell 
Thy  kindred  Gnomes,  who  live  to  nip 
The  rose  on  Beauty's  cheek  and  lip. 
Until,  beneath  their  venom ed  breath, 
Life  wears  the  pallid  hue  of  Death. 
Avaunt !     I  shake  thee  from  me.  Care ! 
The  gay,  the  youthful,  and  the  fair, 
From  "  Lodge,"  and  "  Court,"  and  "  House," 

and  "  Hall," 
Are  hurrying  to  the  County  Ball. 
Avaunt!     I  tread  on  haunted  ground, 
And  giddy  Pleasure  draws  around, 
To  shield  us  from  thine  envious  spite, 
Her  magic  circle  !     Naught  to-night 
Over  that  guarded  barrier  flies 
But  laughing  lips  and  smiling  eyes ; 


28  THE   COUNTY   BALL. 

My  look  shall  gaze  around  me  free, 
And  like  my  look  my  line  shall  be ; 
While  fancy  leaps  in  every  rein, 
While  love  is  life,  and  thought  is  pain, 
I  will  not  rule  that  look  and  line 
By  any  word  or  will  of  thine. 

The  Moon  hath  risen !     Still  and  pale 
Thou  movest  in  thy  silver  veil, 
Queen  of  the  night !  the  filmy  shroud 
Of  many  a  mild,  transparent  cloud 
Hides,  yet  adorns  thee ; — meet  disguise* 
To  shield  thy  blush  from  mortal  eyes. 
Full  many  a  maid  hath  loved  to  gaze 
Upon  thy  melancholy  rays; 
And  many  a  fond,  despairing  youth 
Hath  breathed  to  thee  his  tale  of  trutli  •. 
And  many  a  luckless  rhyming  wight 
Hath  looked  upon  thy  tender  light, 
And  spilt  his  precious  ink  upon  it, 
In  Ode,  or  Elegy,  or  Sonnet. 
Alas!  at  this  inspiring  hour 
I  feel  not,  T,  tliy  boasted  power  ! 
Nor  seek  to  gain  thine  approbation 
By  vow,  or  prayer,  or  invocation ; 
I  ask  not  what  the  vapours  are. 
That  veil  thee  like  a  white  cymar ; 
Nor  do  I  care  a  single  straw 
For  all  the  stars  I  ever  saw  ! 


THE   COUNTY   P..VLL.  29 

I  fly  from  thee,  I  fly  from  these, 
To  bow  to  earthly  Goddesses, 
Wliose  forms  in  mortal  beauty  shine 
As  fair,  but  not  so  cold,  as  thine. 

But  this  is  foolish !     Stars  and  Moon, 
You  look  quite  beautiful  in  June  ; 
But,  when  a  Bard  sits  down  to  sing, 
Your  beauty  is  a  dangerous  thing ; 
To  muse  upon  your  placid  beam. 
One  wanders  sadly  from  one's  theme ; 
And  when  weak  Poets  go  astray. 
The  stars  are  more  in  fault  than  they. 
The  Moon  is  charming !  so,  pei'haps. 
Are  pretty  maidens  in  mob-caps; 
But,  when  a  Ball  is  in  the  case, 
They're  both  a  little  out  of  place. 

I  love  a  Ball !  there's  such  an  air 
Of  magic  in  the  lustre's  glare, 
And  such  a  spell  of  witchery 
In  all  I  hear,  and  all  I  see. 
That  I  can  read  in  every  dance 
Some  relic  sweet  of  old  romance ; 
As  Fancy  wills,  I  laugh  and  smile, 
x\nd  talk  such  nonsense  all  the  while, 
That  when  Dame  Reason  rules  again, 
And  morning  cools  my  heated  brain, 
Eeality  itself  doth  seem 


30  THE   COUNTY   BALL. 

Naught  but  the  pageant  of  a  dream  ; 
Id  raptures  deep  I  gaze,  as  now, 
On  smiling  lip,  and  tranquil  brow, 
While  raerry  voices  echo  round, 
And  music's  most  inviting  sound 
Swells  on  mine  ear ;  the  glances  fly. 
And  love  and  folly  flutter  high. 
And  many  a  fair,  romantic  cheek, 
Eeddened  with  pleasure  or  with  pique, 
GloAvs  with  a  sentimental  flush. 
That  seems  a  bright,  unfading  blush ; 
And  slender  arms  before  my  face 
Are  rounded  with  a  Statue's  grace : 
And  ringlets  wave,  and  beauteous  feet. 
Swifter  than  lightning,  part  and  meet; 
Frowns    come    and   go;    white  hands   arc 

pressed ; 
And  sighs  are  heard,  and  secrets  guessed. 
And  looks  are  kind,  and  eyes  are  bright. 
And  tongues  are  free,  and  hearts  are  light. 
Sometimes  upon  the  crowd  I  look. 
Secure  in  some  sequestered  nook, 
And  while  from  thence  I  look  and  iij;ten, 
Though  ladies'  eyes  so  gayly  glisten, 
Though  ladies'  locks  so  lightly  float, 
Though  Music  pours  her  mellowed  note, 
Some  little  spite  will  oft  intrude 
Upon  my  merry  solitude. 


THE   COUNTY   BALL.  31 

By  turns  the  ever-varying  scene 
Awakes  within  me  mirtli  and  spleen  ; 
By  turns  the  gay  and  vain  appear, — 
By  turns  I  love  to  smile  and  sneer, 
Mixing  my  malice  with  my  glee, 
Good-humour  with  misanthropy; 
And  while  my  raptured  eyes  adore 
Half  the  bright  forms  that  flit  before, 
I  notice  with  a  little  laugh 
The  follies  of  the  other  half. 
That  little  laugh  will  oft  call  down. 
From  matron  sage,  rebuke  and  frown ; 
Little,  in  truth,  for  these  I  care, — 
By  Momus  and  his  mirth  I  swear ! 
For  all  the  dishes  Rowley  tastes. 
For  all  the  paper  Courtenay  wastes, 
For  all  the  punch  his  subjects  quaff, 
I  would  not  change  that  little  laugh.* 

Shall  I  not  laugh,  when  every  fool 
Comes  hither  for  my  ridicule  ; 
When  every  face,  that  flits  to-night 
In  long  review  before  my  sight, 
Shows  off,  unask'd,  its  airs  and  graces, 
Unconscious  of  the  mirth  it  raises? 


*  Hoc  ego  opertuni. 

Hoc  ridcre  meum,  t.im  nil,  nulla  libi  vendo 
lUade.  pera. 


32  THE   COUNTY    BALL. 

Skilled  to  deceive  our  ears  and  eyes 
By  civil  looks  and  civil  lies, 
Skilled  from  the  search  of  men  to  hide 
His  narrow  bosom's  inward  pride, 
And  charm  the  blockheads  he  beguiles 
By  uniformity  of  smiles. 
The  County  Member,  bright  Sir  Paul, 
Is  Primo  Buffo  at  the  Ball. 

Since  first  he  longed  to  represent 
His  fellow-men  in  Parliament, 
Courted  the  cobblers  and  their  spouses. 
And  sought  hig  honours  in  mud-houses. 
Pull  thirty  Springs  have  come  and  fled ; 
And  though  from  off  his  shining  head 
The  twin  destroyers,  Time  and  Care, 
Begin  to  pluck  its  fading  hair. 
Yet  where  it  grew,  and  where  it  growf>, 
Lie  powder's  never-varying  snows. 
And  hide  the  havoc  years  have  made, 
In  kind  monotony  of  shade. 
Sir  Paul  is  young  in  all  but  years, 
And  when  his  courteous  face  appears, 
The  maiden  wall-flowers  of  the  room 
Admire  the  freshness  of  his  bloom. 
Hint  that  his  face  has  made  him  vain, 
And  vow  "he  grows  a  boy  again  ;" 
And  giddy  girls  of  gay  fifteen 
Mimic  his  manner  and  his  mien, 


TIIK    COU:>JTY    BALL.  33 

And  when  the  supple  politician 

Bestows  Ills  bow  of  recognition, 

Or  forces  on  tli'  avei-ted  ear 

The  flattery  it  affects  to  fear. 

Tliey  look,  and  laugh  behind  the  fan, 

And  dub  Sir  Paul  "  the  young  old  man." 

Look!  as  he  paces  round,  he  greets. 
With  nod  and  simper,  all  he  meets  : — 
"  Ah !  ha !  your  Lordship !  is  it  you  ? 
Still  slave  to  Beauty  and  heaux  yeux  ? 
Well!  well!  and  how's  the  gout,  my  Lord? — 
My  dear  Sir  Charles!  upon  my  word, 
L'air  de  Paris,  since  last  I  knew  you. 
Has  been  Medea's  caldron  to  you : — 
William!  my  boy!  how  fast  you  grow! 
Yours  is  a  light  fantastic  toe, 
Winged  with  the  wings  of  Mercury  ! 
I  was  a  scholar  once,  you  see ! 
And  how's  the  mare  you  used  to  ride? 
And  who's  the  Hebe  by  your  side  ? — 
Doctor!  I  thought  I  heard  you  sneeze! 
How  is  my  dear  Hippocrates? 
What  have  you  done  for  old  John  Gates, 
The  gouty  merchant  with  five  votes? 
What!  dead?  well!  well!  no  fault  of  yours  1 
There  is  no  drug  that  always  cures! 
Ah !  Doctor,  I  begin  to  break. 
And  I'm  glad  of  it,  for  your  sake." 

Vot.  IL— 3 


34  THE    COUXTY    BALL. 

As  thus  the  spruce  M.  P.  runs  on, 
Some  quiet  dame,  who  dotes  upon 
His  speeches,  buckles,  and  grimace, 
Grows  very  eloquent  in  praise. 
"How  can  they  say  Sir  Paul  is  proud? 
I'm  sure,  in  all  the  evening's  crowd. 
There's  not  a  man  that  bows  so  low  ; 
His  words  come  out  so  soft  and  slow ; 
And  when  he  begged  me  'keep  my  seat,' 
He  looked  so  civil  and  so  sweet." — 
"Ma'am,"  says  her  spouse,  in  harsher  tone, 
"  He  only  wants  to  keep  his  own." 
Her  Ladyship  is  in  a  huff. 
And  Miss,  enraged  at  Ma's  rebuff, 
Eings  the  alarm  in  t'other  ear : 
"Lord!  now.  Papa,  you're  too  severe; 
"Where  in  the  country  will  you  see 
Manners  so  taking,  and  so  free?" 
"  His  manners  free  ?     I  only  know 
Our  votes  have  made  his  letters  so!" 
"  And  then  he  talks  with  so  mucli  ease — 
And  then  he  gives  such  promises." 
"  Gives  promises  ?  and  well  he  may! 
You  know  they're  all  he  gives  away !" 
"  How  folks  misrepresent  Sir  Paul  1" 
"  'Tis  he  misrepresents  us  all  I" 
"  How  very  stale !  but  you'll  confess 
He  has  a  charming  taste  in  dress ; 
And  uses  such  delightful  scent ; 


THE   COUNTY    BALL. 

And  Tvhen  he  pays  a  compliment — " 
"  Eh !  and  what  then,  my  pretty  pet? 
^Yhat  then?— he  never  pays  a  debt!" 

Sir  Paul  is  skilled  in  all  the  tricks 
Of  politesse,  and  politics; 
Long  hath  he  learned  to  wear  a  mien 
So  still,  so  open,  so  serene, 
That  strangers  in  those  features  grave 
Would  strive  in  vain  to  read  a  knave. 
Alas !  it  is  believed  by  all 
There  is  more  "  Sir"  than  "  Saint"  in  Paul ; 
He  knows  the  value  of  a  place ; 
Can  give  a  promise  with  a  grace ; 
Is  quite  an  adept  at  excuse ; 
Sees  when  a  vote  will  be  of  use ; 
And,  if  the  Independents  flinch, 
Can  help  his  Lordship  at  a  pinch. 
Acutely  doth  he  read  the  fate 
Of  deep  intrigues,  and  plans  of  State ; 
And  if,  perchance,  some  powdered  Peer 
Hath  gained  or  lost  the  Monarch's  ear, 
Foretells,  without  a  shade  of  doubt, 
The  comings  in,  and  goings  out. 
When  placemen  of  distinguished  note 
Mistake,  mislead,  misname,  misquote, 
Confound  tlie  Papist  and  the  Turk, 
Or  murder  Sheridan  and  Burke, 
Or  make  a  riddle  of  the  laws. 
Sir  Paul  grows  hoarse  in  his  applause: 


35 


36  THE    COUNTY    BATX. 

And  when,  in  words  of  equal  size, 

Some  oppositionisi  replies, 

And  talks  of  taxes  and  starvation, 

And  Oatliolie  emancipation. 

The  Knight,  in  indolent  repose, 

Looks  only  to  the  ayes  and  noes. 

Let  youth  say  "grand!"  Sir  Paul  says  "str.iT!' 

Let  youth  take  fire ! — Sir  Paul  takes  snuft". 

Methinks,  amid  the  crowded  room, 
I  see  one  countenance  of  gloom ; 
Whence  is  young  Edmund's  pain  or  pique  ? 
Whence  is  the  paleness  of  his  cheek  ? 
And  whence  the  wrathful  eye,  that  now 
Lowers,  like  Kean's,  beneath  the  brow  ; 
And  now  again  on  earth  is  bent, 
'Twixt  anger  and  embarrassment  ? 
Is  he  poetical — or  sad  ? 
Eeally — or  fashionably  mad? 
Are  his  young  spirits  colder  grown 
At  Ellen's — or  the  Muses'  frown  ? 
He  did  not  love  in  other  days 
To  wear  the  sullens  on  his  face, 
When  merry  sights  and  sounds  were  near  ; 
Nor  on  his  unregarding  ear 
Unheeded  thus  was  wont  to  fall 
The  music  of  the  County  Ball. 

I  pity  all  whom  Fate  unites 
To  vulgar  Belles  on  gala-nights : 


THE    COUNTY    BALL.  37 

But  chiefly  liim  who  haply  sees 

The  day-star  of  liis  clestiuies — 

The  Beauty  of  his  fondest  dreaming, 

Sitting  in  sohtude,  and  seeming 

To  hft  her  dark,  capricious  eye 

Beneath  its  fringe  reproachingly. 

Alas!  my  luckless  friend  is  tied 

To  the  fair  Hoyden  by  his  side, 

"Who  opens,  without  law  or  rule. 

The  treasures  of  the  Boarding-school : 

And  she  is  prating  learnedly 

Of  Logic  and  of  Chemistry, 

Describing  chart  and  definition 

With  geographical  precision. 

Culling  her  words,  as  bid  by  chance, 

From  England,  Italy,  or  France, 

Until,  like  many  a  clever  dunce. 

She  murders  all  the  three  at  once. 

Sometimes  she  mixes  by  the  ounce 

Discussions  deep  on  frill  and  flounce ; 

Points  out  the  stains  that  stick,  like  burrs, 

To  ladies'  gowns — or  characters ; 

Talks  of  the  fiddles,  and  the  weather, 

Of  Laura's  wreath,  and  Fannie's  feather ; — 

All  which  obedient  Edmund  hears, 

With  passive  look,  and  open  ears. 

And  understands  about  as  much 

As  if  the  lady  spoke  in  Dutch ; 

Until,  in  indignation  high, 


38  THE    COTJKTT  BALL. 

She  finds  the  youth  makes  no  reply, 
And  thinks  he's  grown  as  deaf  a  stock 
As  Dido, — or  Marpesian  rock.* 

Ellen,  the  lady  of  his  love, 
Is  doomed  the  like  distress  to  prove. 
Chained  to  a  Captain  of  the  Wars, 
Like  Venus  by  the  side  of  Mars. 
Hark !  Valour  talks  of  conquered  towns, 
See!  silent  Beauty  frets  and  frowns; 
The  man  of  fights  is  wondering  now 
That  girls  iconH  speak  when  dandies  how! 
And  Ellen  finds,  with  much  surprise. 
That  Beaux  will  speak  when  Belles  despise; 
"  Ma'am,"  says  the  Captain,  "I  protest 
I  come  to  ye  a  stranger  guest. 
Fresh  from  the  dismal,  dangerous  land, 
Where  men  are  blinded  by  the  sand, 
"Where  undiscovered  things  are  hid 
In  owl-frequented  pyramid. 
And  Mummies,  with  their  silent  looks. 
Appear  like  memorandum-books, 
Giving  a  hint  of  death,  for  fear 
We  men  should  be  too  happy  here. 
But  if  upon  my  native  land 
Fair  ones  as  still  as  Mummies  stand, 
By  Jove — I  had  as  lief  be  there!" 

*  Dido — non  magis — sermone  movetur 
Quam  si  dura  silex,  aut  stet  Marpesia  caiites. —  Vlr(t. 


THE    COUNTY    BALL.  39 

(The  lady  looks— "I  wish  you  were;") 

"  I  fear  I'm  very  dull  to-night" — 

(The  lady  looks— "  You're  very  right;") 

"But  if  one  smile — one  cheering  ray" — 

(The  lady  looks  another  way  ;) 

"Alas !  from  some  more  happy  man" — 

(The  lady  stoops,  and  bites  her  fan  ;) 

"  Flattery,  perhaps,  is  not  a  crime" — 

(The  lady  dances  out  of  time.) 

"  Perhaps  e'en  now,  within  your  heart, 

Cruel !  you  Avish  us  leagues  apart, 

And  banish  me  from  Beauty's  presence!" 

The  lady  bows  in  acquiescence, 

"With  steady  brow  and  studied  face, 

As  if  she  thought,  in  such  a  case, 

A  contradiction  to  her  Beau 

Keitlier  polite — nor  apropos. 

Unawed  by  scandal  or  by  sneer, 
Is  Reuben  Nott,  the  blunderer,  here  ? 
"What !  is  he  willing  to  expose 
His  erring  brain  to  friends  and  foes  ? 
And  does  he  venturously  dare, 
Midst  grinning  fop,  and  spiteful  fair, 
In  spite  of  all  their  ancient  slips, 
To  open  those  unhappy  lips  ? 

Poor  Reuben !  o'er  his  infant  head 
Her  choicest  bounties  Nature  shed  ; 


40  THE    COUNTY    BALL. 

She  gave  him  talent,  hinnour,  sense, 
A  decent  face  and  competence, 
And  then,  to  mar  the  beauteous  plan. 
She  bade  him  be — an  absent  man. 
Ever  offending,  ever  fretting, 
Ever  explaining,  and  forgetting, 
He  blunders  on  from  dav  to  day. 
And  drives  his  nearest  friends  awav. 
Do  Earces  meet  with  flat  damnation? 
He's  ready  with  "congratulation." 
Are  friends  in  ofliice  not  quite  pure  ? 
He  owns  "he  hates  a  sinecure." 

Was  Major ,  in  foreign  strife, 

Not  over  prodigal  of  life  ? 

He  talks  about  "the  coward's  grave;" 

And  "who  so  base  as  be  a  slave  ?"  ' 

Is  some  fair  cousin  made  a  wife 

In  the  full  autumn  of  her  life  ? 

He's  sure  to  shock  the  youthful  bride 

Witli  "forty  years  come  Whitsuntide." 

He  wanders  round !     I'll  act  the  spy 
Upon  his  fatal  courtesy. 
Which  always  gives  the  greatest  i)aiu. 
Where  most  it  strives  to  entertain. 
"Edward!  my  boy!  an  age  has  passed. 
Methiuks,  since  Eeuben  saw  you  last; 
How  fixres  the  Abbey?  and  the  rooks? 
Yoiir  tenants?  and  vour  sister's  looks? 


THE    COUNTY    BALL.  41 

Lovely  and  fascinating  still, 

With  lips  that  wound,  and  eyes  that  kill? 

"When  last  I  saw  her  dangerous  face, 

There  was  a  lover  in  the  case. 

A  pretty  pair  of  epaulettes! 

But  then,  there  were  some  ugly  dehts ! 

A  match?     Nay!  why  so  gloomy,  hoy  ? 

Upon  my  life  I  wish  'em  joy!" 

With  arms  enfolded  o'er  his  breast, 
And  fingers  clinched,  and  lips  compressed. 
And  eye  whose  every  glance  appears 
To  speak  a  threat  in  Reuben's  ears. 
That  youth  had  heard ;  'tis  brief  and  stern 
The  answer  that  he  deigns  return  ; 
Then  silent  on  his  homeward  way, 
Like  Ossian's  ghosts,  he  strides  away. 

Astonished  at  his  indignation, 
Reuben  breaks  out  in  exclamation : 
"  Edward !  I  mean— I  really  meant — 
Upon  my  word — a  compliment ; 
You  look  so  stern!  nay,  Vvhy  is  this  ? 
Angry  because  I  flattered  Miss? 
What!  gone?     The  deuce  is  in  the  man! 
Explain,  Sir  Robert,  if  you  can." — 
"Eh!  what?  perhaps  you  liavcn't  lieard! — ■ 
Excuse  my  laughing  ! — how  absurd  ! 


42  THE    COUNTY    BALL. 

A  slight  faux  pas/ — a  trifle — merely  ! 

Ha !  ha ! — egad,  you  touched  him,  nearly." 

All  blunderers,  when  they  chance  t(j  make 
In  colloquy  some  small  mistake, 
Make  haste  to  make  a  hundred  more 
To  mend  the  one  they  made  before. 
'Tis  thus  with  Reuben!  through  the  thron» 
With  hurried  steps  he  hastes  along  ; 
Thins,  like  a  pest,  the  crowded  seats. 
And  runs  a  muck  at  all  he  meets ; 
Eich  in  his  unintended  satire. 
And  killing  where  he  meant  to  flatter. 
He  makes  a  College  Fellow  wild 
By  asking  for  his  wife  and  child  ; 
Puts  a  haught  Blue  in  awful  passion 
By  disquisitions  on  the  Fashion ; 
Eefers  a  knotty  case  in  Whist 
To  Morley,  the  Philanthropist ; 
Quotes  to  a  Sportsman  from  St.  Luke, 
Bawls  out  plain  "Bobby"  to  a  Duke  ; 
And  while  a  Barrister  invites 
Our  notice  to  the  Bill  of  Eights, 
And  fat  Sir  John  begins  to  launch 
Into  the  praises  of  a  haunch, 
He  bids  the  man  of  quibbles  pause 
By  eulogizing  "  Spartan  Laws  ;" 
And  makes  the  Epicure  quite  wroth 
By  eulogizing  "  Spartan  Broth." 


THE   COUXTY   BALL.  43 

Error  on  Error  grows  and  swells, 
For,  as  a  certain  proverb  tells, 
"  When  once  a  man  has  lost  his  way, — " 
But  you  have  read  it, — or  you  may. 

Girt  with  a  crowd  of  listening  graces, 
"With  expectation  on  their  faces, 
Chattering,  and  looking  all  the  while 
As  if  he  strove  to  hide  a  smile 
That  fain  would  burst  Decorum's  bands, 
Alfred  Duval,  the  hoaxer,  stands. 
Alfred !  the  eldest  born  of  Mirth  ! 
There  is  not  on  this  nether  earth 
So  light  a  spirit,  nor  a  soul 
So  little  used  to  all  control. 
Frolic,  and  Fun,  and  Jest,  and  Glee, 
Burst  round  him  unremittingly  ; 
And  in  the  glances  of  his  eyes 
Ever  his  heart's  good-humour  flies. 
Mud  as  the  breezes  of  the  South  ; 
And  while,  from  many  a  wiser  moutli. 
We  drink  the  fruits  of  education, 
The  solid  Port  of  conversation, — 
From  Alfred's  lips  we  seem  to  drain 
A  ceaseless  flow  of  bright  Champagne 
In  various  shapes  his  wit  is  found ; 
But  most  it  loves  to  send  around, 
O'er  half  the  town,  on  Rumour's  gale, 
Some  marvellously-fashioned  tale, 


44  THE    COrNTT    BALL. 

And  cheat  the  unsuspecting  ear 

Tfith  groundless  Lope  or  groundless  fear. 

To  sjjeak  in  civil  words — Ms  bent 

Lies  sadly  to — ^Embellishment. 

"Sir!"  says  Morality,  "you  know 

You  shouldn't  flatter  Falsehood  so : 

The  Nurse  that  rocked  you  in  your  crib, 

Taught  you  to  loathe  and  scorn  a  fib, 

And  Shakspeare  warns  you  of  the  evil, 

Saying,  'Tell  truth,  and  shame  the  Devil!' 

I  like,  as  well  as  you,  the  glances 

Where  gay  Good-Humour  brightly  dances ; 

But  when  a  man  tells  horrid  lies. 

You  shouldn't  talk  about  his  eyes." 

Madam !  you'll  think  it  rather  odd 

That,  while  I  bow  me  to  the  rod. 

And  make  no  shadow  of  defence, 

I  still  persist  in  my  oflJ'ence  ; 

And  great  and  small  may  join  to  blame 

The  echo  of  the  Hoaxer's  fame ; 

But  be  it  known  to  great  and  small, — 

I  can't  write  sermons  at  a  ball. 

'Tis  Alfred  fills  the  public  prints 
With  all  the  sly,  ingenious  hints 
That  fly  about,  begirt  with  cares. 
And  terrify  the  Bulls  and  Bears. 
Unrivalled  statesman  !     War  and  peace 
He  makes  and  breaks  with  perfect  ease ; 


THE   COUSTY    BALL.  45 

Skilful  to  crown  and  to  depose, 

lie  sets  up  kings  and  overthrows  ; 

As  if  apprenticed  to  the  work, 

lie  ties  the  bowstring  round  the  Turk, 

Or  makes  the  Algerine  devout, 

Or  plagues  His  Holiness  with  gout, 

Or  drives  the  Spaniards  from  Madrid 

As  quick  as  Bonaparte  did. 

Sometimes  at  home  his  plots  he  lays, 

And  wildly  still  his  fancy  plays. 

He  pulls  the  Speaker  from  the  Chair, 

Murders  the  Sheriffs,  or  the  Mayor, 

Or  drags  a  Bishop  through  the  mire. 

Or  sets  the  Theatres  on  fire, 

Or  brings  the  weavers  to  subjection, 

Or  prates  of  mobs  and  insurrection. 

One  dash  of  his  creative  pen 

Can  raise  a  hundred  thousand  men  ; 

They  march  !  he  wills,  and  myriads  fall ; — 

One  dash  annihilates  them  all ! 

And  now,  amid  that  female  rout, 
What  scandal  doth  he  buzz  about? 
What  graud  aflair  or  mighty  name 
Intrusts  he  to  the  gossip  Fame  ? 
Unchecked,  unstayed,  he  hurries  on 
With  wondrous  stories  of  the  Ton ; 
Describes  how  London  ladies  lose 
Their  heads  in  helmets,  like  the  Blues; 


46  THE   COUNTY   BAX,L. 

And  how  the  highest  cii'cles  meet 
To  dance  with  pattens  on  their  feet ! 
And  all  the  while  he  tells  his  lie 
With  such  a  solemn  gravity, 
That  many  a  Miss  parades  the  room. 
Dreaming  about  a  casque  and  plume; 
And  vows  it  grievously  must  tire  one 
To  waltz  upon  a  pump  of  iron. 

Jacques,  the  Oantah !     I  see  him  brood, 
Wrapped  in  his  mental  solitude, 
On  thoughts  that  lie  too  deep,  I  wis, 
For  such  a  scene  and  hour  as  this. 
Now  shall  the  rivers  freeze  in  May, 
Coquettes  be  silent  at  the  play ; 
Old  men  shall  dine  without  a  story, 
And  mobs  be  civil  to  a  Tory  ! 
All  miracles  shall  well  befoll. 
When  Youth  is  thoughtful  at  a  ball. 

From  thoughts  that  grieve,  and  words  that 
vex. 
And  names  invented  to  perplex  ; 
From  latent  findings,  never  found  ; 
And  mystic  figures,  square  and  round ; 
Shapes  from  whose  labyrinthine  toil 
A  Dasdalus  might  well  recoil ; 
He  steals  one  night — one  single  night. 
And  gives  its  moments  to  delight. 


THE    COUNTY    BALL. 


47 


Yet  still  upon  his  sti-uggling  soul 

Tho  mnddy  wave  of  Cam  will  roll, 

And  all  the  monsters  grim,  that  float 

Upon  that  dark  and  mirky  moat, 

Come  jabbering  round  him— dark  equation. 

Subtile  distinction,  disputation ; 

Notion,  idea,  mystic  schism, 

Assumption,  proof,  and  syllogism ; 

And  many  an  old  and  awful  name 

Of  optic  or  mechanic  fame. 

Look  !  in  the  van  stern  Euclid  shows 

The  Asses'  Bridge  upon  his  nose ; 

Bacon  comes  forward,  sage  austere, 

And  Locke  and  Paley  both  are  there ; 

And  Newton,  with  a  spiteful  hiss. 

Points  to  his  "(?e  Principiis.'''' 

Yet  often,  with  his  magic  wand. 

Doth  Mirth  dispel  that  liideous  band; 

And  then,  in  strange  confusion  lost, 

The  mind  of  Jacques  is  tempest-tossed. 

By  turns,  around  it  come  and  flee 

The  dulce,  and  the  utile; 

By  turns,  as  Thought  or  Pleasure  wills. 

Quadratics  struggle  with  Quadrilles; 

And  figures  sour,  and  figures  sweet, 

Of  problems — and  of  dances — meet ; 

Bisections  fight  with  '■'■down  the  middles^'''' 

And  chords  of  arcs  with  chords  of  fiddles ; 

Vain  are  the  poor  musician's  gi'aces ; 


48  THE    COUNTY    BALL. 

His  bass  gives  way  to  given  bases ; 
His  studied  trill  to  sbapelv  trine ; 
His  mellowed  sliake  to  puzzling  sine; 
Eacb  forming  set  recalls  a  vision 
Of  some  enchanting  proposition, 
And  merrj  '■'■Chasses-croises  huW'' 
Is  little  more  than  Q.  E.  D. 
Ah  !  Stoic  youth  !  before  his  eye 
Bi-ight  beaiities  walk  unheeded  by : 
And  wliile  his  distant  fancy  strays 
Eemote  through  Algebraic  maze, 
He  sees,  in  whatsoe'er  he  views, 
The  very  object  he  pursues, 
And  fairest  forms,  from  heel  to  head. 
Seem  crooked  as  his  x  and  zj_  -' 
Peace  to  the  man  of  marble  I — 

Hush ! 
Whence  is  the  universal  rush  ? 
Why  doth  confusion  tlms  affright 
The  peaceful  order  of  the  night. 
Thwart  the  musicians  in  their  task, 
And  check  the  schoolboy's  pas  de  hasqnc? 
The  Lady  Clare  hath  lost  a  comb ! — 
If  old  Queen  Bess,  from  out  her  tomb, 
Had  burst  with  royal  indignation 
Upon  our  scandalous  flirtation, — 
Darted  a  glance  immensely  chilling 
Upon  our  waltzing  and  quadrilling,— 
Flown  at  the  fiddlers  in  a  pet. 
And  bade  them  play  her  minuet, — 


THE    COimTY    BALL.  49 

Her  stately  step,  and  angry  aye, 
Her  Avaist  so  low,  her  neck  so  liigh, 
Her  habit  of  inspiring  fear, 
Her  knack  of  boxing  on  the  ear, — 
Could  ne'er  have  made  the  people  stare, 
Like  the  lost  comb  of  Lady  Clare ! 
The  tresses  it  was  wont  to  bind, 
Joy  in  their  freedom !  uncoufined 
They  float  around  her,  and  bedeck 
The  marble  whiteness  of  her  neck 
"With  veil  of  more  resplendent  hue 
Than  evef  Aphrodite  threw 
Around  her,  when,  unseen,  she  trod 
Before  the  sight  of  man  or  God. 
Look  how  a  blush  of  burning  red. 
O'er  bosom  and  o'er  forehead  spread. 
Glances  like  lightning ;  and  aside 
The  Lady  Clare  hath  turned  her  head, 
As  if  she  strove  in  vain  to  hide 
That  countenance  of  modest  pride, 
Whose  colour  many  an  envying  fair 
"Would  give  a  Monarch's  crown  to  wear. 
Persuasion  lurks  on  woman's  tongue — 
In  woman's  smile,  oh !  raptures  throng — 
And  woman's  tears  compassion  move — 
But  oh  !   'tis  woman's  blush  we  love/ 

JTow  gallantry  is  busy  round ! 
A.11  eyes  are  bent  upon  the  ground! 
Vol.  n'.-4 


50 


THE   COIJNTY   BALL. 


And  (lancers  leave  the  cheerful  measure 

To  seek  the  lady's  missing  treasure. 

Meanwhile  some  charitable  Miss, 

Quite  ignorant  wliat  envy  is, 

Sends  slowly  forth  her  censures  grave — 

"How  oddly  beauties  will  behave  I 

Oh !  quite  an  accident ! — ^last  year, 

I  think,  she  sprained  her  ankle  here; 

And  then  there  were  such  sudden  halts, 

And  such  a  bringing  out  of  salts!" — 

"You  think  her  vain?" — "  Oh,  gracious!  no! 

She  has  a  charming  foot,  you  know ! 

And  it's  so  pretty  to  be  lame— 

I  don't  impute  the  slightest  blame — 

Only  that  very  careless  braid ! — 

The  fault  is  with  the  waiting-maid  ! 

I  merely  mean — since  Lady  Clare 

Was  flattered  so  about  her  hair, 

Her  comb  is  always  dropping  out — 

Oh  !  quite  an  accident ! — no  doubt!" 

The  Sun  hath  risen  o'er  the  deep, 
And  fathers,  more  than  half  asleep, 
Begin  to  shake  the  drowsy  head. 
And  hint  "it's  time  to  be  in  bed." 
Then  comes  chagrin  on  faces  fair ; 
Soft  hands  are  clasped  in  mimic  prayer ; 
And  then  the  warning  watch  is  shown, 
And  answers  in  a  harsher  tone 


THE   COUNTY   BALL.  51 

Eeply  to  look  of  lamentation, 

And  argument,  and  supplication ; 

In  vain  sweet  voices  tell  their  grief, 

In  speeches  long,  for  respite  brief; 

Bootless  are  all  their  "Lord !"  s  and  "  La!"  s, 

Their  " Pray,  Papa !"  s  and  "Do,  Papa !"  s; 

"Ladies,"  quoth  Gout,  "I  love  my  rest! 

The  carriage  waits! — eundum  est." 

This  is  the  hour  for  parting  bow. 

This  is  the  hour  for  secret  vow, 

For  weighty  shawl,  and  hooded  cloak. 

Half-uttered  tale,  and  whispered  joke. 

This  is  the  hour  when  ladies  bright 

Relate  the  adventures  of  the  night, 

And  fly  by  turns  from  truth  to  fiction, 

From  retrospection  to  prediction: 

They  regulate,  with  unbought  bounty, 

The  destinies  of  half  the  county ; 

With  gypsy  talent  they  foretell 

How  Miss  Duquesne  will  marry  well, 

And  how  'tis  certain  that  the  Squir^j 

TViU  be  more  stupid  than  his  sire, 

And  how  the  girl  they  cried  up  so. 

Only  two  little  months  ago, 

Falls  off  already,  and  will  be 

Really  quite  plain  at  twenty-three. 

Now  Scandal  hovers  laughing  o'er  them, 

"While  pass  in  long  review  before  them 

The  Lady  that  my  Lord  admires — 


52  THE    COUNTY    BALL. 

The  gentleman  that  moves  on  wires — 
The  youth  with  such  a  frightful  frown — 
And  "that  extraordinary  gown." 
Now  characters  are  much  debated, 
And  witty  speeches  are  narrated ; 
And  Criticism  delights  to  dwell 
On  conquest  won  by  many  a  belle, 
On  compliments  that  ne'er  were  paid, 
On  offers  that  were  never  made, 
Eefusals— Lord  knows  when  refused, 
Deductions — Lord  knows  how  deduced  ; 
Alas !  how  sweetly  Scandal  falls 
From  lips  of  beauties — after  Balls. 

The  music  stops, — the  lights  expire, — 
The  dance  is  o'er, — the  crowds  retire; 
And  all  those  smiling  cheeks  have  flowu! 
Away ! — the  rhjTiier  is  alone. 
Thou,  too,  the  iVdrest  and  the  best, 
Hast  fleeted  from  him  with  the  rest ; 
Thy  name  he  will  not,  love!  unite 
To  the  rude  strain  he  pours  to-night ; 
Yet  often  hath  he  turned  away 
Amidst  his  harsh  and  wandering  lay, 
And  often  hath  his  earnest  eye 
Looked  into  thine  delightedly, 

And  often  hath  his  listening  ear 

But  thou  art  gone! — what  doth  he  here? 


TO  JULIO.  53 


TO   JULIO, 

ON   HIS    COMING   OF   AOE. 

Julio,  while  Fancy's  tints  adorn 
The  first  bright  beam  of  manhoocrs  morn, 
The  cares  of  boyhood  fleet  away 
Like  clouds  before  the  face  of  day; 
And  see,  before  your  ravished  eyes 
New  hopes  appear,  new  duties  rise ; 
Restraint  has  left  his  iron  tlirone. 
And  Freedom  smiles  on  twenty-one. 

Count  o'er  the  friends  whom  erst  you  knew, 
"When  careless  boyhood  deemed  them  true, — 
With  whom  you  wiled  the  lazy  hours 
Fiound  fond  Etona's  clas^sic  towers, 
Or  strayed  beside  the  learned  mud 
Ofancient  Cam's  meandering  flood  ; 
The  follies  tluit  in  them  you  view. 
Shall  be  a  source  of  good  to  you. 

"With  mincing  gait,  and  foreign  air, 
Sir  Philip  strays  tlirough  park  and  square, 
Or  yawns  in  Grange's  sweet  recess, 
In  all  the  studied  ease  of  dress; 


54  TO    JULIO. 

Aptly  the  manling's  tongue,  I  deem, 
Can  argue  on  a  lofty  theme, — 
Which  damsel  hath  the  merrier  eye, 
"Which  fop  the  better-fancied  tie, 
Which  perfume  hath  the  sweetest  savour, 
Which  soup  the  more  inviting  flavour ; 
And  Fashion,  at  Sir  Philip's  call, 
Ordains  the  collars  rise  and  fall, 
And  shifts  the  Bitimmel's  varj-ing  hue 
From  blue  to  brown,  from  brown  to  bJue 

And  hence  the  motley  crowd  who  e'er 
Bear  Fashion's  badge,  or  wish  to  bear. 
From  Hockley  Hole  to  Rotten  Row, 
Unite  to  dub  Sir  Philip — beau. 

And  such  is  Fashion's  empty  fame — 
Squire  Robert  loathes  the  very  name; 
The  rockets  hiss,  the  bonfires  blaze. 
The  peasants  gape  in  still  amaze; 
The  field  unploughed — the  ox  unyoked. 
The  farmer's  mouth  with  pudding  choked, 
The  sexton's  vest  of  decent  brown, 
The  village  maiden's  Sunday  gown. 
In  joyful  union  seem  to  say, 
"Squire  Robert  is  of  age  to-day." 

The  bumpkins  hurry  to  the  Bell, 
And  clam'rous  tongues  in  riot  swell ; 


TO   JULIO.  56 

Anger  is  hot — and  so  is  liquor ; 
They  drink  confusion  to  the  Vicar — 
And  shout  and  song  from  lad  and  lass, 
And  broken  lieads — and  broken  glass, 
In  concert  horrible,  declare 
Tlieir  loyal  reverence  for  the  heir. 

Right  justly  may  the  youthful  Squire 
These  transi^orts  in  his  slaves  inspire  ; 
At  every  fireside  through  the  place 
He's  welcome  as  the  curate's  grace ; 
He  tells  his  story,  cracks  his  joke. 
And  drinks  his  ale  "Z^l■e  other  folk  ;^^ 
Pearless  he  risks  that  cranium  thick 
At  cudgelling  and  single-stick ; 
And  then  his  stud  ! — why !  far  and  wide 
It  is  the  county's  chiefest  pride ! 
Ah !  had  his  steed  no  firmer  brains 
Than  the  mere  thing  that  holds  the  reins, 
Grief  soon  would  bid  the  beer  to  run 
Because  the  Squire's  mad  race  was  done, 
Not  less  than  now  it  froths  away, 
Because  "the  Squire's  of  age  to-day." 

Far  diflferent  pomp  inspired  of  old 
The  youthful  Eoman's  bosom  bold, 
Soon  as  a  father's  honoured  hand 
Gave  to  his  grasp  the  casque  and  brand, 
And  oft'  the  light  preetexta  threw, 


56  TO   JULIO. 

And  from  his  neck  the  bulla  drew, 
Bade  him  the  toga's  foldings  scan, 
And  glory  in  the  name  of  "  Man." 
Far  different  pomp  lit  ardour  high 
In  the  young  German's  eager  eye, 
"When,  bending  o'er  his  offspring's  head, 
An  aged  sire,  half-weeping,  said, — 
"  Thy  duty  to  thy  father  done, 
Go  forth — and  be  thy  country's  son." 
Heavens !  how  his  bosom  burned  to  dara 
The  grim  delight  of  manhood's  war, 
And  brandish  in  no  mimic  field 
His  beaming  lance  and  osier  shield : 
How  his  young  bosom  longed  to  claim 
In  war's  wild  tumult  manhood's  name, 
And  write  it,  midst  the  battle's  foam. 
In  the  best  blood  of  trembling  Rome  ! 

Such  was  the  hope,  the  barbarous  joy, 
That  nerved  to  arrns  the  German  boy ; 
A  flame  as  ardent,  more  refined, 
Shall  brightly  glow  in  Julio's  mind ; 
But  yet  I'd  rather  see  thee  smile 
Grimly  on  war's  embattled  file, 
I'd  rather  see  thee  wield  in  strife 
The  German  butcher's  reckless  knife, 
Thinking  thy  claims  to  manhood  grow 
From  each  pale  corse  that  bleeds  below  ;- 
I'd  rather  view  thee  thus, — than  see 
A  modern  blockhead  rise  in  thee. 


TO   JULIO.  57 

Is  it  a  study  for  a  Peer 
To  breathe  soft  vows  in  lady's  ear, 
To  choose  a  coat — or  leap  a  gate, 
To  win  an  heiress — or  a  plate  ? 

Far  nobler  studies  shall  be  thiue — 
So  Friendship  and  the  Muse  divine : 
It  shall  be  thine,  in  danger's  hour, 
To  guide  the  helm  of  British  power, 
And,  midst  thy  country's  laurelled  crown, 
To  mis  a  garland  aU  thine  own. 
Julio,  from  this  auspicious  day, 
ITew  honours  gild  thine  onward  way ; 
In  thee  Posterity  shall  view 
A  heart  to  faith  and  feeling  true, 
And  Fame  her  choicest  wreaths  shall  blend 
For  Virtue's,  and  the  poor  man's  friend. 


58  TO   JULIA. 


TO  JULIA, 

PEEPARING-   FOE   HER  FIRST  SEASON  IN  TO"WK. 

Julia,  while  London's  Jfixncied  bliss 
Bids  you  despise  a  life  like  this, 
"While  Ohiswick  .and  its  joys  you  leave, 
For  hopes  that  flatter  to  deceive, 
You  will  not  scornfully  refuse 
(Though  dull  the  theme,  and  weak  the  Muse) 
To  look  upon  my  line,  and  hear 
"What  Friendship  sends  to  Beauty's  ear. 

Four  miles  from  Town,  a  neat  abode 
O'erlooks  a  rose-bush,  and  a  road ; 
A  paling,  cleaned  with  constant  care. 
Surrounds  ten  yards  of  neat  parterre, 
"Where  dusty  ivy  strives  to  crawl 
Five  inches  up  the  whitened  wall ; 
The  open  window  thickly  set 
"With  myrtle,  and  with  mignonette, 
Behind  whose  cultivated  row 
A  brace  of  globes  peep  out  for  show ; 
The  avenue — the  burnished  plate, 
That  decks  the  would-be  rustic  gate, 
Denote  the  fane  where  Fashion  dwells, 
-— "Lyce's  Academy  for  Belles." 


TO   JULIA.  59 

'Twas  here,  in  earlier,  happier  days, 
Retired  from  Pleasure's  weary  maze, 
You  found,  unlcnown  to  care  or  pain, 
The  peace  you  will  not  find  again. 
Here  Friendships,  far  too  fond  to  last, 
A  bright,  but  fleeting  radiance  cast 
On  every  sport  that  Mirth  devised. 
And  every  scene  that  Childhood  prized, 
And  every  bliss,  that  bids  you  yet 
Recall  those  moments  with  regret. 

Those  friends  have  mingled  in  the  strife 
That  fills  the  busy  scene  of  life. 
And  Pride  and  Folly — Cares  and  Fears, 
Look  dark  upon  their  future  years : 
But  by  their  wrecks  may  Julia  learn 
Whither  her  fragile  bark  to  turn  ; 
And,  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  Fate, 
Avoid  the  rocks  they  found  too  late. 

You  know  Camilla :  o'er  the  plain 
She  guides  the  fiery  hunter's  rein ; 
First  in  the  chase  she  sounds  the  horn. 
Trampling  to  earth  the  farmer's  corn, 
That  hardly  deigned  to  bend  its  head, 
Beneath  her  namesake's  lighter  tread. 
With  Bob  the  Squire,  her  polished  lover, 
She  wields  the  gun,  or  beats  the  cover; 
And  then  her  steed  I — why !  every  clown 


60  TO   JULIA. 

Tells  how  she  rubs  Smolensko  down, 
And  combs  the  mane,  and  cleans  the  hoof, 
"While  wondering  hostlers  stand  aloof. 

At  night,  before  the  Christmas  fire, 
She  plays  backgammon  with  the  Squire ; 
Shares  in  his  laugli,  and  in  his  liquor, 
Mimics  her  father  and  the  Vicar ; 
Swears  at  the  grooms — without  a  blush 
Dips  in  her  ale  the  captured  brush. 
Until — ^her  father  duly  tired — 
The  parson's  wig  as  duly  fired — 
The  dogs  all  still — the  Squire  asleep, 
And  dreaming  of  his  usual  leap — 
She  leaves  the  dregs  of  white  and  red. 
And  lounges  languidly  to  bed ; 
And  still,  in  nightly  visions  borne, 
She  gallops  o'er  the  rustic's  corn  ; 
Still  wields  the  lash — still  shakes  the  box, 
Dreaming  of  "sixes" — and  the  fox. 

And  this  is  bliss!  The  story  runs, 
Camilla  never  wept — save  once, 
Yes !  once  indeed  Camilla  cried — 
'Twas  when  her  dear  Blue-stockings  died. 

Pretty  Cordelia  thinks  she's  ill — 
She  seeks  her  med'cine  at  Quadrille ; 
"With  hope,  and  fear,  and  envy  sick. 


TO  JTJLIA.  61 

She  gazes  on  the  dubious  trick, 
As  if  eternity  were  laid 
Upon  a  diamond,  or  a  spade. 
And  I  have  seen  a  transient  pique 
"Wake,  o'er  that  soft  and  girlish  cheek, 
A  chilly  and  a  feverish  hue, 
Bligliting  the  soil  where  Beauty  grew, 
And  bidding  Hate  and  Malice  rove 
In  eyes  that  ought  to  beam  with  love. 

Turn  we  to  Fannia— she  was  fair 
As  the  soft  fleeting  forms  of  air. 
Shaped  by  the  fancy— fitting  theme 
For  youthful  bard's  enamoured  dream. 
The  neck,  on  Avhose  transparent  glow 
The  auburn  ringlets  sweetly  flow, 
The  eye  that  swims  in  liquid  fire. 
The  brow  that  frowns  in  playful  ire, 
All  these,  when  Fannia's  early  youth 
Looked  lovely  in  its  native  truth, 
Diffused  a  bright,  unconscious  grace. 
Almost  divine,  o'er  form  and  face. 

Her  lip  has  lost  its  fragrant  dew. 
Her  cheek  has  lost  its  rosy  hue, 
Her  eye  the  glad  enlivening  rays 
That  glittered  there  in  happier  days, 
Her  heart  the  ignorance  of  woe 
Which  Fashion's  votaries  may  not  know. 


62  TO   JULIA. 

The  city's  smoke — the  noxious  air— 
The  constant  crowd — the  torch's  glare — 
The  morning  sleep — the  noonday  call — 
The  late  repast — the  midnight  ball, 
Bid  Faith  and  Beauty  die,  and  taint 
Her  heart  with  fraud,  her  face  with  paint. 

And  what  the  boon,  the  prize  enjoyed, 
For  fame  defaced,  and  peace  destroyed  ? 
"Why  ask  we  this  ?     With  conscious  grace 
She  criticises  silk  and  lace ; 
Queen  of  the  modes,  she  reigns  alike 
O'er  sarcenet,  bobbin,  net,  vandyke ; 
O'er  rouge  and  ribbons,  combs  and  curls, 
Perfumes  and  patches,  pins  and  pearls ; 
Feelings  and  faiutings,  songs  and  sighs, 
Small-talk  and  scandal,  love  and  lies. 

Circled  by  beaux  behold  her  sit, 
While  dandies  tremble  at  her  wit ; 
The  Captain  hates  "  a  woman's  gab ;" 
"A  devil!"  cries  the  shy  Cantab  ; 
The  young  Etonian  strives  to  fly 
The  glance  of  her  sarcastic  eye, 
For  well  he  knows  she  looks  him  o'er. 
To  stamp  him  "buck,"  or  dub  him  "bore." 

Such  is  her  life — a  life  of  waste, 
A  life  of  wretchedness — and  taste; 


TO   JTJLIA.  63 

And  all  the  glory  Fannia  boasts, 
And  all  tlie  price  that  glory  costs, 
At  once  are  reckoned  np,  in  one — 
One  word  of  bliss  and  folly — Ton. 

JTot  these  tlie  thoughts  that  could  perplex 
The  fancies  of  our  fickle  sex, 
"When  England's  favourite,  good  Queen  Bess, 
Was  Queen  alike  o'er  war  and  dress. 
Then  ladies  gay  played  chesse — and  ballads, 
And  learned  to  dress  their  hair — and  salads ; 
Sweets — and  sweet  looks  were  studied  then, 
And  both  were  pleasing  to  the  men ; 
For  cookery  was  allied  to  taste. 
And  girls  were  taught  to  blush — and  baste. 
Dishes  were  bright — and  so  were  eyes. 
And  lords  made  love — and  ladies  pies. 

Then  Yalour  won  the  wavering  field, 
By  dint  of  hauberk  and  of  shield ; 
And  Beauty  won  the  wavering  heart. 
By  dint  of  pickle,  and  of  tart. 
The  minuet  was  the  favourite  dance, 
Girls  loved  the  needle — boys  the  lance ; 
And  Cupid  took  his  constant  post 
At  dinner,  by  the  boiled  and  roast, 
Or  secretly  was  wont  to  lurk 
In  tournament,  or  needle-work. 
Oh  !  'twas  a  reign  of  all  delights, 


64  TO   JULIA. 

Of  Iiot  Sir-loins, — and  hot  Sir  knights; 
Feasting  and  fighting,  hand  in  hand, 
Fattened,  and  glorified  the  land; 
And  noble  chiefs  had  noble  cheer, 
And  knights  grew  strong  upon  strong  beer ; 
Honour  and  oxen  both  were  nourished, 
And  chivalry — and  pudding  flourished. 

I'd  rather  see  that  magic  face, 
That  look  of  love,  that  form  of  grace. 
Circled  by  whalebone,  and  by  ruffs. 
Intent  on  puddings,  and  on  pufl^s, — 
I'd  rather  view  thee  thus,  than  see 
"  A  Fashionable"  rise  in  thee. 
If  Life  is  dark,  'tis  not  for  you 
(If  partial  Friendship's  voice  is  true) 
To  cure  its  griefs,  and  drown  its  cares, 
By  leaping  gates,  and  murdering  hares, 
Nor  to  confine  that  feeling  soul. 
To  winning  lovers — or  the  vole. 

If  these  and  such  pursuits  are  thine, 
Julia !  thou  art  no  friend  of  mine ! 
I  love  plain  dress — I  eat  plain  joints, 
I  cannot  play  ten-guinea  points, 
I  make  no  study  of  a  pin. 
And  hate  a  female  whipper-in. 


LAURA. 


LATJRA. 


65 


"Kor  she  in  shaps  and  beauty  did  excel 
All  other  idols  that  the  heathen  do  adore." 

"  Aud  all  about  her  altar  scattered  lay 
Great  sorts  of  lovers  piteously  complaining." 

A  LOOK  as  blitlie,  a  step  as  light 
As  fabled  nymph,  or  fairy  sprite  ; 
A  Yoice,  whose  every  word  and  tone 
Might  make  a  thousand  hearts  its  own  ; 
A  brow  of  fervour,  and  a  mien 
Bright  with  the  hopes  of  gay  fifteen ; 
These,  loved  and  lost  one!  these  were  thine, 
When  first  I  bowed  at  Beauty's  shrine ; 
But  I  have  torn  my  wavering  soul 
From  woman's  proud  and  weak  control ; 
The  fane  where  I  so  often  knelt, 
The  flame  ray  heart  so  truly  felt. 
Are  visions  of  another  time. 
Themes  for  my  laughter,— and  my  rhyme. 

She  saw,  and  conquered  ;  in  her  eye 
There  was  a  careless  cruelty, 
That  shone  destruction,  while  it  seemed 
Unconscious  of  the  fire  it  beamed. 

Vol.  n.— 5 


66  LAURA. 

And  oh !  that  negligence  of  dress, 
That  wild,  infantine  playfulness, 
That  archness  of  the  trifling  brow, 
•  That  could  command — we  know  not  how, 
Were  links  of  gold  thai  held  me  then, 
In  bonds  I  may  not  bear  again  ; 
For  dearer  to  an  honest  heart 
Is  childhood's  mirth  than  woman's  art. 

Already  many  an  aged  dame, 
Skilful  in  scandalizing  fame, 
Foresaw  the  reign  of  liaura's  face, 
.  Her  sway,  her  folly,  and  disgrace. 
Minding  the  beauty  of  the  day 
More  than  her  partner,  or  her  play  : — 
"  Laura  a  beauty  ?  flippant  chit ! 
I  vow  I  hate  her  forward  wit!" 
("  I  lead  a  club !")— "  Why,  Ma'am,  between  us. 
Her  mother  thinks  her  quite  a  Venus ; 
But  every  parent  loA'"es,  you  know, 
To  make  a  pigeon  of  her  crow." 
"  Some  folks  are  apt  to  look  too  high — 
She  has  a  dukedom  in  her  eye." 
"The  girl  is  straight"  ("we  call  the  ace"), 
"But  that's  the  merit  of  her  stays." 
"  I'm  sure,  I  loathe  malicious  hints — 
But — only  look,  how  Laura  squints !" 
"Yet  Miss,  forsooth" — ("who  play'd  the  ten: 
'  Is  quite  perfection  with  the  men ; 


LAURA.  67 

The  tiattering  fools— they  make  me  sick" — 
("  -^ell — four  by  honour?,  and  the  trick.") 
While  thus  the  crones  hold  high  debate 
On  Laura's  charms  and  Laura's  fate, 
A  few  short  years  have  rolled  along, 
And — first  in  Pleasure's  idle  throng — 
Laura,  in  ripened  beauty  proud, 
Smiles  haughty  on  the  flattering  crowd ; 
Her  sex's  envy — fashion's  boast — 
An  heiress — and  a  reigning  toast. 

The  circling  waltz,  and  gay  quadrillo, 
Are  in  or  out,  at  Laura's  will ; 
The  tragic  bard,  and  comic  wit, 
Heed  not  the  critic  in  the  pit, 
If  Laura's  undisputed  sway 
Ordains  full  houses  to  the  play ; 
And  fair  ones  of  an  humbler  fate, 
That  envy,  whUe  they  imitate. 
From  Laura's  whisper  strive  to  guess  . 
The  changes  of  inconstant  dress. 
Where'er  her  step  in  beauty  moves. 
Around  her  fly  a  thousand  loves; 
A  thousand  graces  go  before. 
While  striplings  wonder  and  adore ; 
And  some  are  wounded  by  a  sigh, 
Some  by  the  lustre  of  her  eye  ; 
And  these  her  studied  smiles  insnare, 
And  those  the  ringlets  of  her  hair. 


68  LAUEA. 

The  first  liis  flutteriug  heart  to  lose, 
Was  Captain  Piercj  of  the  Blues ; 
He  squeezed  her  hand, — he  gazed  and  swore 
He  never  was  in  love  before  ; 
He  entertained  his  charmer's  ear 
With  tales  of  wonder,  and  of  fear ; 
Talked  much  and  long  of  siege  and  fight, 
Marches  by  day,  alarms  by  night ; 
And  Laura  listened  to  the  story. 
Whether  it  spoke  of  love  or  glory ; 
For  many  an  anecdote  had  he 
Of  combat,  and  of  gallantry; 
Of  long  blockades,  and  sharp  attacks, 
Of  bullets,  and  of  bivouacs; 
Of  towns  o'ercome, — and  ladies,  too,— 
Of  billet — and  of  billet-doux ; 
Of  nunneries  and  escalades 
And  damsels,  and  Damascus  blades. 

Alas!  too  soon  the  Captain  found 
How  swiftly  Fortune's  wheel  goes  round; 
Laura  at  last  began  to  doze. 
E'en  in  the  midst  of  Badajoz ; 
And  hurried  to  a  game  at  loo 
From  AVellington  and  Waterloo : 
The  hero,  in  heroics  left. 
Of  fortune,  and  a  wife  bereft, 
With  naught  to  cheer  his  close  of  day 
But  celibacy,  and  half-pay, 


LAUKA.  69 

Since  Laura  and  his  stars  were  cruel — 

Sought  his  quietus  in  a  duel. 

He  fought  aud  perished ;  Laura  sighed, 

To  hear  how  hapless  Piercy  died ; 

And  wiped  her  eyes,  and  thus  expressed 

The  feelings  of  her  tender  breast : 

"What!  dead? — poor  fellow — what  a  pity! 

He  was  so  handsome  and  so  witty ; 

Shot  in  a  duel,  too ! — good  gracious — 

How  I  did  hate  that  man's  mustachiosi" 

Next  came  the  interesting  beau, 
The  trifling  youth — Frivolio ; 
He  came  to  see,  and  to  be  seen, 
Grace  and  good-breeding  in  his  mien; 
Shone  all  Delcroix  upon  his  head, 
The  West  End  spoke  in  all  he  said ; 
And  in  his  neckcloth's  studied  fold 
Sat  Fashion,  on  a  throne  of  gold. 
He  came,  impatient  to  resign 
What  heart  he  had,  at  Laura's  shrine; 
Though  deep  in  self-conceit  incased, 
He  learned  to  bow  to  Laura's  taste ; 
Consulted  her  on  new  quadrilles, 
Spot  waistcoats,  lavender,  and  gills; 
As  willed  the  proud  and  fickle  fair, 
He  tied  his  cloth,  and  curled  his  hair ; 
Varied  his  manners — or  his  clothes, 
Aud  changed  his  tailor,  or  his  oaths. 


70  LAURA. 

Oh!  how  did  Laura  love  to  vex    . 
The  fair  one  of  the  other  sex! 
For  him  she  practised  every  art 
That  captivates  and  phigiies  the  heart. 
Did  he  bring  tickets  for  the  play  ? 
No — Laura  had  the  spleen  to-day. 
Did  he  escort  her  to  the  ball  ? 
No — Laura  would  not  dance  at  all. 
Did  he  look  grave? — "the  fool  was  sad;" 
"Was  he  jocose? — "the  man  was  mad." 
E'en  when  he  knelt  before  her  feet, 
And  there,  in  accents  soft  and  sweet, 
Laid  rank  and  fortune,  heart  and  hand, 
At  Laura's  absolute  command. 
Instead  of  blushing  her  consent, 
She  "wondered  what  the  blockhead  meant?" 

Yet  still  the  fashionable  fool 
"Was  proud  of  Laura's  ridicule ; 
Though  still  despised,  he  still  pursued. 
In  ostentatious  servitude. 
Seeming,  like  lady's  lap-dog,  vain 
Of  being  led  by  Beauty's  chain. 
He  knelt,  he  gazed,  he  sighed,  and  swore, 
"While  'twas  the  fashion  to  adore ; 
"When  years  had  passed,  and  Laura's  frown 
Had  ceased  to  terrify  the  town, 
He  hurried  from  the  fallen  grace. 
To  idolize  a  newer  face ; 


LAUKA.  "71 

Constan-t  to  nothing  was  the  ass, 
Save  to  his  follies — and  his  glass. 

The  next  to  gain  the  Beauty's  ear 
Was  William  Lisle,  the  sonneteer, 
Well  deemed  the  prince  of  rhyme  and  blank ; 
For  long  and  deeply  had  he  drank 
Of  Helicon's  poetic  tide, 
Where  nonsense  flows,  and  mimbers  glide ; 
And  slumbered  on  the  herbage  green 
That  decks  the  banks  of  Hippocrene. 
In  short — his  very  footmen  know  it — 
William  is  mad — or  else  a  poet.* 
Ho  came  and  rhymed ;  he  talked  of  fountains, 
Of  Pindus,  and  Pierian  mountains ; 
Of  wandering  lambs,  of  gurgling  rills, 
And  roses,  and  Castalian  hills  ; 
He  thought  a  lover's  vow  grew  sweeter, 
When  it  meandered  into  metre  ; 
And  planted  every  speech  with  flowers, 
Fresh  blooming  from  Aonian  bowers. 

"Laura,  I  perish  for  your  sake," — 
(Here  he  digressed  about  a  lake ;) 
"  The  charms  thy  features  all  disclose," — 
(A  simile  about  a  rose ;) 
"Have  set  my  very  soul  on  fire,"— 

•  ■'  Ant  insanit  homo^aut  versus  facit." — Hor. 
'  All  Bedlam— or  Parnassus  is  let  out." — Popt. 


'2 


LAUKA. 


(An  episode  about  his  lyre  ;) 

"  Though  you  despise,  I  still  must  love,"- 

(Something  about  a  turtle  dove ;) 

"Alas!  in  death's  uustartled  sleep,"— 

(Just  here  he  did  his  best  to  weep ;) 

"Laura,  the  willow  soon  shall  wave 

Over  thy  lover's  lonely  grave." 

Then  he  began,  with  pathos  due, 

To  speak  of  cypress,  and  of  rue. 

But  Fortune's  unforeseen  award 

Parted  the  Beauty  from  the  Bard ; 

For  Laura,  in  that  evil  hour, 

When  unpropitious  stars  had  jjovrer, 

Unmindful  of  the  thanks  she  owed, 

Lighted  her  taper  with  an  ode. 

Poor  "William  all  his  vows  forgot, 

And  hurried  from  the  fatal  spot, 

In  all  the  bitterness  of  quarrel, 

To  write  lampoons— and  dream  of  laurel. 

Years  fleeted  by,  and  every  grace 
Began  to  fade  from  Laura's  face  ; 
Through  every  circle  whispers  ran. 
And  aged  dowagers  began 
To  gratify  their  secret  spite : — 
"  How  shocking  Laura  looks  to-night ! 
We  know  her  waiting-maid  is  clever. 
But  rouge  won't  make  one  young  forevei- ; 
Laura  should  think  of  being  sage, 
You  know — she's  of  a  certain  age." 


LAUKA.  Y3 

Her  wonted  wit  began  to  fail, 
Her  eyes  grew  dim,  her  features  pale ; 
Her  fame  was  past,  licr  race  was  done, 
Her  lovers  left  her  one  by  one ; 
He-i*  slaves  diminished  by  degrees, 
They  ceased  to  fawn — as  she  to  please. 
Last  of  the  gay,  deceitful  crew, 
Chremes,  the  usm'er,  withdrew ; 
By  many  an  art  he  strove  to  net 
The  guineas  of  the  rich  coquette  ; 
But  (so  the  adverse  fates  decreed) 
Chremes  and  Laura  disagreed ; 
For  Chremes  talked  too  much  of  stocks, 
And  Laura  of  her  opera-bos. 

Unhappy  Laura !  sadness  marred 
What  tints  of  beauty  time  had  spared  ; 
For  all  her  wide-extended  sway 
Had  faded,  like  a  dream,  away  ; 
And  they  that  loved  her  passed  her  by 
With  altered  or  averted  eye. 
That  silent  scorn,  that  chilling  air. 
The  fallen  tyi-ant  could  not  bear ; 
She  could  not  live  when  none  admired, 
And  perished,  as  her  reign  expired. 

I  gazed  upon  that  lifeless  form. 
So  late  with  hope  and  fancy  warm; 
That  pallid  brow,  that  eye  of  jet, 


74:  LAIJEA. 

Where  lustre  seems  to  linger  yet ; 
Where  sparkled  through  an  auburn  tress 
The  last  dim  light  of  loveliness, 
Whose  trembling  ray  was  only  seen, 
To  bid  us  sigh  for  what  had  been. 
Alas !  I  said,  my  "wavering  soul. 
Was  torn  from  woman's  weak  control; 
But  when,  amid  the  evening's  gloom, 
I  looked  on  Laura's  early  tomb ; 
And  thought  on  her,  so  bright  and  fair. 
That  slumbered  in  oblivion  there ; 
That  calm  resolve  I  could  not  keep, 
And  then  I  wept, — as  now  I  weep. 


THE   OOXFESSION   OF   DON    CARLOS        75 

THE  CONFESSION   OF  DON  CARLOS 

IMITATED    FEOJI   THE   SPANISH. 

Oh  !   tell  not  me  of  broken  vow — 
I  speak  a  firmer  passion  now ; 
Oh!  tell  not  me  of  shattered  chain— 
The  link  shall  never  burst  again ; 
My  soul  is  fixed  as  firmly  here 
As  the  red  Sun  in  his  career ; 
As  Victory  on  Mina's  crest, 
Or  Tenderness  in  Rosa's  breast. 
Then  do  not  tell  me,  while  we  part, 
Of  fickle  flame,  and  roving  heart ; 
While  Youth  shall  bow^t  Beauty's  shrine, 
That  flame  shall  glow— that  heart  be  thine. 

Then  wherefore  dost  thou  bid  me  tell 
The  fate  thy  malice  knows  so  well  ? 
I  may  not  disobey  thee! — Yes! 
Thou  bidd'st  me, — and  I  icill  confess  :— 
See  how  adoringly  I  kneel — 
Hear  how  my  folly  I  reveal ; 
My  folly  I— chide  me  if  thou  wilt. 
Thou  shalt  not — canst  not  call  it — guilt. 
And  when  my  faithlessness  is  to.d, 
Ere  thou  hast  time  to  play  the  scold, 


70      THE   COKFESSION   OF   DOX   CAiJLOS. 

I'll  haste  the  fond  rebuke  to  check, 
And  lean  upon  thy  snowy  neck, 
Play  with  its  glossy  auburn  hair, 
And  hide  the  blush  of  falsehood  there. 

Inez,  the  innocent  and  young, 
First  shared  my  heart,  and  waked  my  song ; 
We  were  both  harmless,  and  untaught 
To  lo've  as  fashionables  ought ; 
"With  all  the  modesty  of  youth, 
"We  talked  of  constancy  and  truth  ; 
Grew  fond  of  Music,  and  the  Moon, 
And  wandered  on  the  nights  of  June, 
To  sit  beneath  the  chestnut-tree. 
While  the  lonely  stars  shone  mellowly, 
Shedding  a  pale  and  dancing  beam 
On  the  wave  of  Guadalquivir's  stream. 
And  aye  we  talked  of  faith  and  feelings, 
With  no  distrustings,  no  concealings ; 
And  aye  we  joyed  in  stolen  glances, 
And  sighed,  and  blushed,  and  read  romances. 
Our  love  was  ardent  and  sincere, — 
And  lasted,  Eosa — half  a  year! 
And  then  the  maid  grew  fickle-hearted. 
Married  Don  Jose — so  we  parted. 
At  twenty-one,  I've  often  heard, 
My  bashfulness  was  quite  absurd ; 
For,  with  a  squeamishness  uncommon, 
I  feared  to  love  a  married  woman. 


THE   CONFESSION    OF   DON    CARLOS.       71 

Fair  Leonora's  laughing  eye 

Again  awaked  my  song  and  sigh  : 

A  gay  intriguing  dame  was  she; 

And  fifty  Dons  of  high  degree, 

That  came  and  went  as  they  were  bid, 

Dubbed  her  the  Beauty  of  Madrid. 

Alas !  what  constant  pains  I  toolc 

To  merit,  one  approving  look : 

T  courted  Valour  and  the  Muse, 

"Wrote  challenges — and  billet-doux; 

Paid  for  Sherbet  and  Serenade, 

Fenced  with  Pegru  and  Alvarade  ; 

Fought  at  the  Bull-fights  like  a  hero, 

Studied  small-talk, — and  the  Bolero  ; 

Played  the  guitar — and  played  the  fool 

This  out  of  tnne — that  out  of  rale. 

I  oft  at  midnight  wandered  out, 

Wrapped  up  in  love — and  my  capote, 

To  muse  on  beauty — and  the  skies, 

Cold  winds — and  Leonora's  eyes. 

Alas !  when  all  my  gains  were  told, 

I'd  caught  a  Tartar — and  a  cold. 

And  yet  perchance  that  lovely  brov. 

Had  still  detained  my  captive  vow ; 

That  clear  blue  eye's  enchanting  roll 

Had  still  inthralled  my  yielding  soul ; 

But  suddenly  a  vision  bright 

Came  o'er  me  in  a  veil  of  light. 

And  burst  the  bond  whose  fetters  bound  mo, 


78   THE  CONFESSION  OF  DON  CARLOS. 

And  brake  the  spell  that  hung  around  me, 
Recalled  the  heart  that  madly  roved, 
And  bade  me  love,  and  be  beloved. 
Who  was  it  brake  the  chain  and  spell  ? 
Dark-eyed  Castilian  ? — thou  canst  tell ! 
And  am  I  faithless  ? — woe  the  while, 
What  vow  but  melts  at  Rosa's  smile  ? 
For  broken  vows,  and  faith  betrayed, 
The  guilt  is  thine,  Castilian  maid ! 

The  tale  is  told,  and  I  am  gone ! 
Think  of  me,  loved  and  only  one. 
When  none  on  earth  shall  care  beside 
How  Carlos  lived,  or  loved,  or  died ! 
Thy  love  on  earth  shall  be  to  me 
A  bird  upon  a  leafless  tree — 
A  bark  upon  a  hopeless  wave — 
A  lily  on  a  tombless  grave — 
A  cheering  hope — a  living  ray, 
To  light  me  on  a  weary  way. 

And  thus  is  Love's  Confession  done  ; 
Give  me  thy  parting  benison ; 
And  ere  I  rise  from  bended  knee, 
To  wander  o'er  a  foreign  sea, 
Alone  and  friendless, — ere  I  don 
My  pilgrim's  hat,  and  sandal  shoon — 
Dark-eyed  Castilian  !  let  me  win 
Forgiveness  sweet  for  venial  sin ; 
Let  lonely  sighs  and  dreams  of  thee. 
Be  penance  for  my  perjury. 


THE   BACHELOR.  79 

THE  BACHELOR. 

T.  QUINCE,  ESQ.,  TO   THE   REV.  MATTHEW  PRIXGLE, 

You  wonder  that  your  ancient  friend 
Has  come  so  near  liis  journey's  end, 
And  borne  his  heavy  load  of  ill 
O'er  Sorrow's  slough,  and  Labor's  hill, 
Without  a  partner  to  beguile 
The  toilsome  way  with  constant  smile. 
To  share  in  happiness  and  pain. 
To  guide,  to  comfort,  to  sustain, 
And  cheer  the  last,  long,  weary  stage, 
That  leads  to  Death,  through  gloomy  Age ! 
To  drop  these  metaphoric  jokes, 
And  speak  like  reasonable  folks, 
It  seems  you  wonder,  Mr.  Pringle, 
That  old  Tom  Quince  is  living  single. 

Since  my  old  crony  and  myself 
Laid  crabbed  Euclid  on  the  shelf. 
And  made  our  Conge  to  the  Cam, 
Long  years  have  passed  ;  and  here  I  am, 
With  nerves  and  gout,  but  yet  alive, 
A  Bachelor,  and  fifty-five. 
Sir,  I'm  a  Bachelor,  and  mean, 
Until  the  closing  of  the  scene, 


80  THE   BACHELOE. 

Or  be  it  rigtt,  or  be  it  wrong, 
To  play  the  part  I've  played  so  long, 
Nor  be  the  rat  tbat  others  are, 
Cauglit  by  a  ribbon  or  a  star. 

"  As  years  increase,"  your  worship  criey, 
"  All  troubles  and  anxieties 
Come  swiftly  on :  you  feel  vexation 
Abouti.your  neighbours,  or  the  nation  ; 
The  gout  in  fingers  or  in  toes. 
Awakes  you  from  your  first  repose  ; 
You'll  want  a  clever  nurse,  when  life 
Begins  to  fail  you  ! — take  a  wife  ; 
Believe  me,  from  the  mind's  disease 
Her  soothing  voice  might  give  you  ease, 
And    when    the    twinge    comes    shooting 

through  you, 
Her  care  might  be  of  service  to  you." 

Sir,  I'm  not  dying,  though  I  know 
You  charitably  think  me  so  ; 
Not  dying  yet,  though  you,  and  others, 
In  augury  your  learned  brothers, 
Take  pains  to  prophesy  events 
Which  lie  some  twenty  winters  hence. 
Some  twenty  ? — look  !  you  shake  your  head. 
As  if  I  were  insane  or  dead. 
And  tell  your  children  and  your  wife, — 
"  Old  men  grow  very  fond  of  life  I" 


THE    BACliF.LOi:.  SI 

Alas !  your  prescience  never  ends 
As  long  as  it  concerns  your  friends  ; 
But  your  own  fifty-third  December 
Is  what  you  never  can  remember  ! 

And  when  I  talk  about  my  health. 
And  future  hopes  of  weal  or  w'ealth, — 
With  something  'twixt  a  grunt  and  groan, 
You  mutter  in  an  under  tone, 
"  Hark  !  how  the  dotard  chatters  still  .'* 
He'll  not  believe  he's  old  or  ill ! 
He  goes  on  forming  great  designs, — 
Has  just  laid  in  a  stock  of  wines, — 
And  promises  his  niece  a  ball, 
As  if  gray  hairs  would  never  fall ! 
I  really  think  he's  all  but  mad." 
Then,  with  a  wink  and  sigh,  you  add, 
"  Tom  is  a  friend  I  dearly  prize, 
But  never  thought  him  over  wise!" 

You — who  are  clever  to  foretell 
Where  ignorance  might  be  as  well, 

•  1  must  confess  that  Dr.  Swift 

Has  lent  me  here  a  little  lift : 
For  when  /steal  some  trilling  hits 
From  older  and  from  brighter  wits, 
I  have  some  touch  ofconbtience  left, 
And  seldom  like  to  hide  the  theft. 
This  is  my  [dan  ;  I  name  no  name, 
Bnt  wish  all  others  did  thi-  same. 

Vol.  II.— G 


82  THE    BACHELOE. 

"Would  marvel  how  my  health  has  stood  : 
My  pulse  is  firm,  digestion  good, 
I  walk  to  see  my  turnips  grow, 
Manage  to  ride  a  mile  or  so, 
Get  to  the  village  chtirch  to  pray, 
And  drink  my  pint  of  wine  a  day ; 
And  often,  in  an  idle  mood, 
Emerging  from  my  solitude, 
Look  at  my  sheep,  and  geese,  and  fowls, 
And  scare  the  sparrows  and  the  owls ; 
Or  talk  with  Dick  about  my  crops. 
And  learn  the  price  of  malt  and  hops. 

You  say,  that,  when  you  S'aw  me  last. 
My  appetite  was  going  fast, 
My  eye  was  dim,  my  cheek  was  pale, 
My  bread — and  stories — both  were  stale, 
My  wine  and  wit  were  growing  worse. 
And  all  things  else, — except  my  purse  ; 
In  short,  the  very  blind  might  see 
I  was  not  what  I  used  to  be. 

My  glass  (which  I  believe  before  ye) 
"Will  teach  me  quite  another  story; 
My  wrinkles  are  not  many  yet — 
My  hair  is  still  as  black  as  jet — 
INfy  legs  are  full — my  cheeks  are  ruildy — 
My  eyes,  though  somewhat  sank  by  study, 
Retain  a  most  vivacious  ray, 


THE   BACHELOR.  83 

And  tell  no  stories  of  decay ; 
And  then  my  waist, — unvexed,  unstayed 
By  fetters  of  the  tailor's  trade, — 
Tells  you,  as  plain  as  waist  can  tell, 
I'm  most  unfashionably  well. 

And  yet  you  think  I'm  growing  thinner ! 
You'd  stare  to  see  me  eat  my  dinner ! 
You  know  that  I  was  held  by  all 
The  greatest  epicure  in  Hall, 
And  that  the  voice  of  Granta's  sons 
Styled  me  the  Gourmand  of  St.  John's ; 
I  have  not  yet  been  found  unable 
To  do  my  duty  to  my  table. 
Though  at  its  head  no  Lady  gay 
Hath  driven  British  food  away, 
And  made  her  hapless  husband  bear 
Alike  her  fury  and  her  fare. 
If  some  kind-hearted  chum  calls  in, — • 
An  extra  dish,  an  older  bin, 
And  John,  in  all  his  finery  dressed, 
Do  honour  to  the  welcome  guest ; 
And  then  we  talk  of  other  times, 
Of  parted  friends,  and  distant  climes, 
And  lengthened  converse,  tale,  and  jest, 
Lull  every  anxious  care  to  rest ; 
And  when  unwillingly  I  rise, 
With  newly-wakened  sympathies, 
From  conversation — and  the  bowl, 


84:  THE  BACHELOK. 

The  feast  of  stomach— and  of  soul, 

I  lay  me  down  and  seem  to  leap 

O'er  forty  summers  in  my  sleep  ; 

And  youth,  with  all  its  joy  and  pain, 

Comes  rushing  on  my  soul  again  ; 

I  rove  where'er  my  boyhood  roved — 

I  love  whate'er  my  boyhood  loved — 

And    rooks,    and   vales,    and  woods,    and 

streams. 
Fleet  o'er  ray  pillow  in  my  dreams. 
'Tis  true  some  ugly  foes  arise 
E'en  in  this  earthly  Paradise, 
Which  you,  good  Pringle,  may  beguile 
By  Mrs.  P.'s  unceasing  smile. 
I  am  an  independent  elf. 
And  keep  my  comforts  in  myself 
If  my  best  sheep  have  got  the  rot — 
Or  if  the  Parson  hits  a  blot — 
Or  if  young  Witless  prates  of  laurel — 
Or  if  my  tithe  produces  quarrel— 
Or  if  my  rooting  wants  repairs — 
Or  if  I'm  angry  with  my  heirs — 
Or  if  I've  nothing  else  to  do — 
I  grumble  for  an  hour  or  two  ; 
Eiots,  or  rumours,  unrepressed. 
My  niece,  or  knuckle,  over-dressed, 
The  lateness  of  a  wished-for  post, 
Miss  Mackrell's  story  of  the  ghost. 
New  wines,  new  fashions,  or  new  faces, 


THE   BACHELOR.  85 

New  bills,  new  taxes,  or  new  places, 
Or  Mr.  Hume's  enumeration 
Of  all  the  troubles  of  the  nation, 
Will  sometimes  wear  my  patience  out! 
Then,  as  I  said  before — the  gout — 
Yv'ell,  well,  iny  heart  was  never  faint — 
And  yet  it  might  provoke  a  saint. 

A  rise  of  bread,  or  fall  of  rain, 
Sometimes  unite  to  give  me  pain, 
And  oft  my  lawyer's  bag  of  papers 
Gives  me  a  taste  of  spleen  and  vapom-s. 
Angry  or  sad,  alone  or  ill, 
I  have  my  senses  with  me  still ; 
Although  my  eyes  are  somewhat  weak. 
Yet  can  I  dissipate  my  pique 
By  Poem,  Paper,  or  Review  ; 
And  though  I'm  dozy  in  my  pew, 
At  Dr.  Poundtext's  second  leaf, 
I  am  not  yet  so  very  deaf 
As  to  require  the  rousing  noise 
Of  screaming  girls  and  roaring  boys. 
Thrice — thrice  accursed  be  the  day 
"When  I  shall  fling  my  bliss  away, 
And,  to  disturb  my  quiet  life, 
Take  Discord  in  the  shape  of  wife  I 
Time,  in  his  endless  muster-roll, 
Shall  mark  the  hour  with  blackest  coal 
When  old  Tom  Quince  shall  cease  to  sec 


86  THE   BACHELOE. 

The  Chronicle  with  toast  and  tea, 
Confine  his  rambles  to  his  park, 
And  never  dine  till  after  dark. 
And  change  his  comfort  and  his  crony. 
For  crowd  and  conversazione. 

If  every  aiding  thought  is  vain, 
And  momentary  grief  and  pain 
Urge  the  old  man  to  frown  and  fret, 
He  has  another  comfoi't  yet ; 
This  earth  has  thorns,  as  poets  sing, 
Bnt  not  forever  can  they  sting  ; 
Our  sand  from  out  its  narrow  glass 
Kapidly  passes  I — let  it  pass ! 
I  seek  not — I — to  check  or  stay 
The  progress  of  a  single  day, 
But  rather  cheer  my  hours  of  pain 
Because  so  few  of  them  remain. 
Care  circles  every  mortal  head, — 
The  dust  will  be  a  calmer  bed ! 
From  Life's  alloy  no  Life  is  free. 
But — Life  is  not  eternity ! 

When  that  unerring  day  shall  come 
To  call  me  from  my  wandering,  home,— 
The  dark,  and  still,  and  painful  day, 
When  breath  shall  fl^eet  in  groans  away, 
When  comfort  shall  be  vainly  sought. 
And  doubt  shall  be  in  every  thought, 


THE    BACHELOK.  87 

^Mieii  words  shall  fail  th'  uuiittered  vow, 
And  fever  beat  the  burning  brow, 
When  the  dim  eye  shall  gaze,  and  fear 
To  close  the  glance  that  lingers  herc^ 
Snatching  the  faint  departing  light. 
That  seems  to  flicker  in  its  tiight, 
When  the  lone  heart,  in  that  long  strife, 
Shall  cling  unconsciously  to  life, — 
I'll  have  no  shrieking  female  by 
To  shed  her  drops  of  sympathy ; 
To  listen  to  each  smothered  throe, 
To  feel,  or  feign,  otiicious  woe ; 
To  bring  me  every  useless  cup. 
And  beg  "  dear  Tom"  to  drink  it  up; 
To  turn  my  oldest  servants  otf, 
E'en  as  she  hears  my  gurgling  cough  ; 
And  tlien  expectantly  to  stand. 
And  chafe  my  temples  with  her  hand  ; 
And  pull  a  cleaner  night-cap  o'er  'em, 
That  I  may  die  with  due  decorum ; 
And  watch  the  while  my  ebbing  breuth. 
And  count  the  tardy  steps  of  Death ; 
Grudging  the  Leech  his  growing  bill, 
And  rapt  in  dreams  about  the  will. 
I'll  have  no  Furies  round  my  bed ! — 
They  shall  not  phigue  me — till  I'm  dead ! 

Believe  me !  ill  my  dust  would  rest, 
If  the  plain  marble  o'er  my  breast. 


88  THE   BACHELOE. 

That  tells,  in  letters  large  and  clear, 
"  The  Bones  of  Thomas  Quince  lie  here!" 
Should  add  a  talisman  of  strife, 
"Also  the  Bones  of  Jane  his  Wife!" 

No ;  while  beneath  this  simple  stone 
Old  Quince  shall  sleep,  and  sleep  alone, 
Some  Village  Oracle,  who  well 
Knows  how  to  speak,  and  read,  and  spell, 
Shall  slowly  construe,  bit  by  bit, 
My  "na^Ms"  and  my  "o5n^," 
And  then,  with  sage  discoxirse  and  long, 
Eecite  my  virtues  to  the  throng : — 

"  The  Gentleman  came  straight  from  Col- 
lege! 
A  most  prodigious  man  for  knowledge! 
He  used  to  pay  all  men  their  due. 
Hated  a  miser — and  a  Jew, 
But  always  opened  wide  his  door 
To  the  first  knocking  of  the  poor. 
None,  as  the  grateful  Parish  knows. 
Save  the  Church-wardens,  were  his  foes  ; 
They  could  not  bear  the  virtuous  pride 
"Which  gave  the  sixpence  tliey  denied. 
If  neighbours  had  a  mind  to  quarrel, 
He  used  to  treat  them  to  a  barrel ; 
And  that,  I  think,  was  sounder  law 
Than  any  book  I  ever  saw. 


THE  BACHELOE.  89 

The  Ladies  never  used  to  flout  him  ; 
But  this  was  rather  strange  about  him, 
That,  gay  or  thoughtful,  young  or  old, 
He  took  no  wife,  for  love  or  gold ; 
Woman  he  called  'a  pretty  thing,' — 
But  never  could  abide  a  ringl" 

Good  Mr.  Pringle ! — you  must  see 
Your  arguments  are  light  with  me; 
They  buzz  like  feeble  flies  around  me, 
But  leave  me  firm,  as  first  they  found  me. 
Silence  your  logic  !  burn  your  pen  ! 
The  Poet  says  "avc  all  are  men;" 
And  all  "  condemned  alike  to  groan!" 
You  with  a  wife,  and  I  with  none. 
"Well ! — yours  may  be  a  happier  lot. 
But  it  is  one  I  envy  not ; 
And  you'll  allow  me,  Sir,  to  pray. 
That,  at  some  near-approaching  day, 
You  may  not  have  to  wince  and  whine. 
And  find  some  cause  to  envy  mine  ! 


90  MAKEIAGB. 


MARRIAGE. 

What,  what  is  Marriage?  Harris,  Prir^cian, 
Assist  me  with  a  definition. — 
"  Oh!"  cries  a  charming,  silly  fool. 
Emerging  from  her  boarding-school — 
"  Marriage  is — love  without  disguises, 
It  is  a — something  that  arises 
From  raptures  and  from  stolen 'glances, 
To  be  the  end  of  all  romances ; 
Vows — quarrels — moonshine — babes — but 

hush ! 
I  mustn't  have  you  see  me  blush." 

"Pshaw  !"  says  a  modern  modish  wife, 
"  Marriage  is  splendour,  fashion,  life  ; 
A  house  in  town,  and  villa  shady, 
Balls,  diamond  bracelets,  and  '  my  lady ;' 
Then  for  finale,  angry  words, 
'  Some  people 's — '  obstinate 's — '  absurd  I  "s 
And  peevish  hearts,  and  silly  heads. 
And  oaths,  and  'bete  's  and  separate  beds  1"' 

An  aged  bachelor,  whose  life 
Has  just  been  sweetened  with  a  wife, 
Tells  out  the  latent  grievance  thus : 
"  Marriage  is — odd !  for  one  of  us 


MARRIAGE.  91 

'Tis  worse  a  mile  than  rope  or  tree, 

Hemlock,  or  sword,  or  slavery  ; 

An  end  at  once  to  all  our  ways. 

Dismission  to  the  one-horse  chaise  ; 

Adieu  to  Sunday  can,  and  pig. 

Adieu  to  wine,  and  whist,  and  wig ; 

Our  friends  turn  out, — our  wife's  are  clapped 

in; 
*Tis  'exit  Crony,' — 'enter  Captain.' 
Then  hurry  in  a  thousand  thorns, — 
Quarrels,  and  compliments, — and  horns. 
This  is  the  yoke,  and  I  must  wear  it ; 
Marriage  is — hell,  or  something  near  it !'' 

"Why,  marriage,"  says  an  exquisite, 
Sick  from  the  supper  of  last  night, 
"  Marriage  is — after  one  by  me ! 
I  promised  Tom  to  ride  at  three. — 
Marriage  is — 'gad !  I'm  rather  late  ; 
La  Fleur ! — my  stays!  and  chocolate  ! — 
[Marriage  is — really,  though,  'twas  hard 
To  lose  a  thousand  on  a  card ; 
Sink  the  old  Duchess ! — three  revokes ! 
'Gad  !  I  must  fell  the  Abbey  oaks  : 
Mary  has  lost  a  thousand  more ! — 
Marriage  is-  -'gad  !  a  cursed  bore!" 

Hymen,  who  hears  the  blockheads  groan, 
Rises  indignant  from  his  throne. 


92  MARRIAGE. 

And  mocks  tlieir  self-reviling  tears, 
And  ^Ybispe^s  thus  in  Folly's  ears : 

"  O  frivolous  of  heart  and  head! 
If  strifes  infest  your  nuptial  bed, 
Not  Hymen's  hand,  but  guilt  and  sin, 
Fashion  and  folly,  force  them  in ; 
If  on  your  couch  is  seated  Care, 
/  did  not  bring  the  scoffer  there ; 
If  Hymen's  torch  is  feebler  grown, 
The  hand  that  quenched  it  was  your  own  ; 
And  what  I  am,  unthinking  elves, 
Ye  all  have  made  me  for  yourselves  I" 


HOW   TO   KHYME   FOR    LOVE.  03 


HOW  TO  RHYME  FOR  LOVE. 

At  the  last  Lour  of  Fannia's  rout, 
When  Dukes  walked  in,  and  lamps  went  out, 
Fair  Chloe  sat :  a  sighing  crowd 
Of  liigh  adorers  round  her  bowed, 
And  ever  Flattery's  incense  rose 
To  lull  the  Idol  to  repose. 
Sudden  some  Gnome,  that  stood  unseen, 
Or  lurked  disguised  in  mortal  mien. 
Whispered  ir  Beauty's  trembling  ear 
The  word  of  bondage  and  of  fear, — 
"  ]Srarriage  :"— her  lips  their  silence  broke, 
And  smiled  on  Vapid  as  they  spoke— 
'^  I  hate  a  drunkard,  or  a  lout, 
I  liate  the  sullens  and  the  gout ; 
If  e'er  I  wed— let  danglers  know  it, — 
1  wed  with  no  one — but  a  poet." 

And  who  but  feels  a  Poet's  fire 
When  Chloe's  smiles,  as  now,  inspire  ? 
AVho  can  the  bidden  verse  refuse 
AVhen  Ohloe  is  his  theme  and  Muse  ? 

Thus  Flattery  whispered  round ; 
And  straight  the  humorous  fancy  grew, 
That  lyres  are  sweet  when  hearts  are  true ; 


94:  HOW   TO   RHYME   FOE   LOVE. 

And  all  who  feel  a  lover's  flame 
Must  rhyme  to-night  on  Chloe's  name ; 
And  he's  unworthy  of  the  Dame, 

Who  silent  here  is  found. 
Since  Head  must  plead  the  cause  of  Hearty 
Some  put  their  trust  in  answer  smart. 

Or  pointed  repartee ; 
Some  joy  that  they  have  hoarded  up 
Those  Genii  of  the  jovial  cup, 

Chorus,  and  Catch,  and  Glee. 
And,  for  one  evening,  all  prepare 
To  be  "Apollo's  chiefest  ca-e." 

Then  Vapid  rose — no  Stentor  this, 

And  his  no  Homer's  lay — 
Meek  victim  of  antithesis, 

He  sighed  and  died  away : — 
"  Despair  my  sorrowing  bosom  rivtt-, 

And  anguish  on  me  lies  ; 
Chloe  may  die  while  Vapid  lives. 

Or  live  while  Vapid  dies ! 
You  smile !  the  horrid  vision  flies. 

And  Hope  this  promise  gives ; 
I  cannot  live  while  Chloe  dies, 

Nor  die  while  Chloe  lives!" 

Nest  Snafl3e,  foe  to  tears  and  sadness, 

Drew  fire  from  Chloe's  eyes ; 
And,  warm  with  drunkenness  and  uiaduess, 


HOW    TO    RHYME    FOR    LOVE.  95 

He  started  for  the  prize. 
"  Let  the  glad  cymbals  loudly  clash ! 

Full  bumpers  let's  be  quaffing ! 
Kopoetl!     Hip!  hip!  here  goes!— 
Blow— blow  the  trumpet !— blow  the—" 
Here  he  was  puzzled  for  a  rhyme, 
And  Lucy  whispered  "nose"  in  time, 

And  so  they  fell  a-laughing. 

"  Gods!"  cried  a  Minister  of  State, 
"  You  know  not.  Empress  of  my  Fate, 
How  long  my  passion  would  endure, 
If  passion  were  a  sinecure ; 
But  since,  in  Love's  despotic  clime, 
Fondness  is  taxed,  and  pays  in  rhyme, 
Glad  to  retire,  I  shun  disgrace. 
And  make  my  bow,  and  quit  my  place." 

And  thus  the  jest  went  circling  round. 

And  ladies  smiled  and  sneered, 
As  smooth  Fourteen,  and  weak  Fourscore, 
Professed  they  ne'er  had  rhymed  before. 
And  Drunkards  blushed,  and  Doctors  swore. 

And  Soldiers  owned  they  feared : 
Unwonted  Muses  were  invoked 

By  Pugilists  and  Whips ; 
And  many  a  Belle  looked  half  provoked. 
When  favoured  Swains  stood  dumb  and  choked, 
Atid  Warblers  whined,  and  Punsters  joked, 

And  Dandies  bit  their  lips. 


96  HOW    TO    KHYME    FOE    LOVE. 

At  last  an  old  Ecclesiastic, 
"Who  looked  half  kind,  and  half  sarcastic, 
And  seemed,  in  every  transient  look, 
At  once  to  flatter  and  rebuke. 
Cut  otf  the  sport  with  "  Pslia!  enough  ;" 
And  then  took  breath,  and  then — took  snuff. 
"Ohloe,"  he  said,  "you're  like  the  moon  ! 
You  shine  as  bright,  you  change  as  soon ! 
Your  wit  is  like  the  moon's  fair  beam. 

In  borrowed  light  'tis  o'er  us  thrown; 
Yet,  like  the  moon's,  that  sparkling  stream 

To  careless  eyes  appears  your  own ; 
Your  cheek  by  turns  is  pale  and  red  ; 

And  then  (to  close  the  simile, 
From  which,  methinks,  you  turn  your  heail, 

As  half  in  anger,  half  in  glee) — 
Dark  would  the  night  appear  without  you— 
And — twenty  fools  have  rhymed  about  you." 


OHAJSTGING    QUARTERS.  97 

CHANGING  QUARTERS. 

A   SKETCn. 

"Ahl  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress ! 

*  *  *  *  ns  SIS  Hf 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste." 

IJi/ran 

Fair  laughs  the  morn,  and  out  they  coino 
A.t  the  solemn  beat  of  the  rolling  drum, 

Apparelled  for  the  march  ; 
Many  an  old  and  honoured  name, 
Young  Avarriors,  with  their  eyes  of  flame, 
And  aged  veterans  in  the  wars. 
With  little  pay,  and  many  scars. 
And  titled  Lord,  and  tottering  Bean, 
Right  closely  wrapped  from  top  to  toe 

In  vanity  and  starch. 
The  rising  Sun  is  gleaming  bright, 
And  Britain's  flag  is  waving  light, 
And  widely,  where  the  gales  invite, 

The  charger's  mane  is  flowing: 
Around  is  many  a  staring  face 
Of  envious  Boor,  and  wondering  Grace, 
And  Echo  shouts  through  all  the  place, — 

"  The  Soldiers  be  a-going!" 
Beauty  and  Bills  are  buzzing  now 
Vol.  II.— 7 


98  CHANGING    QUAETER8. 

In  many  a  martial  ear, 
And,  midst  the  tumult  and  the  row, 
Is  seen  the  Tailor's  anxious  bow, 

And  Woman's  anxious  tear. 
Alas !  the  thousand  cares  that  float 
To-day  around  a  scarlet  coat ! 
There's  Sergeant  Cross,  in  fume  and  fret. 
With  little  Mopsa,  the  coquette, 

Close  clinging  to  his  side  : 
Who,  if  fierce  Mars  and  thundering  Jove 
Had  had  the  least  respect  for  love. 

To-day  had  been  his  bride — 
Aud,  midst  the  trumpet's  wild  acclaim, 
She  calls  upon  her  lover's  name 

In  beautiful  alarm ; 
Still  looking  up  expectantly 
To  see  the  tear-drop  in  his  eye, 

Still  hanging  to  his  arm  ; 
And  he  the  while — his  fallen  chop 

Most  eloquently  tells 
That  much  he  wishes  little  Mop 
Were  waiting  for — another  drop, 

Or  hanging — somewhere  else. 

Poor  Captain  Mill !  what  sounds  of  feur 
Break  sudden  on  his  startled  ear  ! 
On  right  and  left,  above,  around  him, 
Tom,  the  horse-dealer,  roars,  "Confound  him  I 
A  pretty  conscience  his ; 


CHANGING   QUARTERS.  99 

To  ruin  thus  iny  finest  bay, 

And  Lurry  off,  like  smoke,  to-day, — 

If  there's  no  hiw,  some  other  way. 

By  Jove,  he'll  smart  for  this!" 
Ah !  fly,  unhappy,  while  you  can  ! 
The  Captain  is  a  dangerous  man, 

A  right  old  Jockey's  son  ! 
Ah!  fly,  unhappy,  while  you  may! 
The  Captain  first  knocks  up  the  Bay, 

And  then — knocks  down  the  Dun  '. 

Old  Larry  is  as  brave  a  soul 
As  ever  drained  an  English  bowl ; 
His  head  and  heart  alike  are  tried  ; 
And  when  two  comrades  have  a]j])lied 
Or  hand  to  sword,  or  lip  to  pewter. 
Old  Larry  never  yet  was  neuter. 
But  now  the  Hero  (like  a  fool 
Eipe  from  a  milksop  boarding-school, 

In  love  or  fortune  crossed), 
Silent,  and  pale,  and  stupid,  stands, 
Scratches  his  head  with  both  his  hands, 

And  fears  the  hostile  Host. 
Oh !  can  it  be  ?  are  hearts  of  stone 
So  small,  and  soft,  and  silky  grown, 

That  Larry  fears  a  lick  ? 
Oh  1  wrong  not  thus  his  closing  years, 
'Tis  not  the  Host  of  France  he  fears, 

But  of  the  Candlestick. 


100  CHANGma    QUARTERS. 

The  Brute  is  there! — in  long  array, 
All  clean  set  down  from  day  to  day, 

The  dreaded  figures  stalk ; 
The  Veteran,  with  his  honest  hlows. 
Can  settle  well  a  Score  of  Foes, 

But  not  a  Score  of  Chalk. 
Alas!  alas!  that  warrior  hot 
Balls  from  ten-pounders  feareth  not, 

But  Bills  for  pennies  three ; 
And  if  he  trembles,  well  I  wot 
He  would  not  care  for  Gallic  shot. 

So  here  he  were  shot-free. 

Fat  Will  the  Butcher,  in  a  pet, 
His  furious  fang  hath  sharply  set 
On  luckless  Captain  Martinette, 

And  thus  the  booby  cries: 
"Don't  kick. — As  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs 
You  will  not  have  me  off  my  legs, 

Captain,  although  you  tries ; 
And  you  must  know,  good  Sir,  a"s  how 
I  mean  to  ha'  my  money  now, 

Or  know  the  whens  and  whys." 
The  little  Captain,  whom  'twould  kill 

To  be  a  public  scoff. 
Shuffles,  and  whispers — "  Honest  Will, 
For  forty  shillings  is  your  bill — 

Take  twenty — and  be  off." 
T!ie  Butcher,  much  a  friend  to  run, 


CHANGING    QUARTERS.  101 

And  somewhat  apt  to  laugh  or  pun, 

Stands  grinning  like  his  calves ; 
Till  for  his  joke  his  debt  he  barters — 
•'  Sir,  Gommen,  when  they  change  their  quarters, 

Shouldn't  do  things  by  halves." 

He,  too,  the  pride  of  war,  is  there, 
Victorious  Major  Ligonier. 
A  soldier  he  from  boot  to  phime, 
In  tented  field,  or  crowded  room. 
Magnanimous  in  martial  guise. 
He  eats,  and  sleeps,  and  swears,  and  lies ; 
Like  no  poor  cit  the  man  behaves. 
And  when  he  picks  his  teeth,  or  shaves, 
He  picks  his  teeth  with  warlike  air, 
And  mows  his  beard  e7i  militaire. 
But  look !  his  son  is  by  his  side. 
More  like  a  young  and  blushing  bride 

Than  one  in  danger's  hour. 
All  madly  doomed  to  run  and  ride. 
And  stem  tlie  Battle's  whelming  tide. 

And  face  its  iron  shower. 
In  peace  too  warm,  in  war  too  cold. 
Although  with  girls  he's  very  bold, 

With  men  he's  somewhat  shy ; 
Nature  could  not  two  gifts  afford, 
And  so  she  did  not  make  his  sword 

So  killin"'  as  bis  eve. 


102  CHANGmC    QUARTERS. 

Is  there  an  eye  which  nothing  sees, 

In  what  it  views  to-day, 
To  whisper  deeper  thoughts  than  these. 

And  wake  a  graver  lay  ? 
Ah,  think  not  thus !  when  Lovers  part. 
When  weeping  eye  and  tremhhng  heart 

Speak  more  than  words  can  say ; 
It  ill  becomes  my  jesting  song 
To  run  so  trippingly  along. 
And  on  these  trifling  themes  bestow 
What  ought  to  be  a  note  of  woe. 

I  see  young  Edward's  courser  stand, 
The  bridle  rests  upon  his  hand ; 
But  beauteous  Helen  lingers  yet. 
With  throbbing  heart,  and  eyelid  wet ; 
And  as  she  speaks  in  that  sweet  tone  ' 
Which  makes  the  listener's  soul  its  own, 
And  as  she  heaves  that  smothered  sigh 
Which  Lovers  cannot  hear  and  fly, 
In  Edward's  face  looks  up  the  while. 
And  longs  to  weep,  yet  seems  to  smile. 

"Fair  forms  may  fleet  around,  my  love! 

And  lighter  steps  than  mine. 
And  sweeter  tones  may  sound,  my  love ! 

And  brighter  eyes  may  shine ; 
But  wheresoever  thou  dost  rove, 
Thou  wilt  not  find  a  heart,  my  love, 


CHANGING    QUARTERS.  103 

So  truly.  I'.'holly  tliine, 
As  that  which  at  thy  feet  is  aehiug, 
As  if  its  very  strings  were  breaking! 

"I  would  not  see  thee  glad,  my  love! 

As  erst,  in  happier  years ; 
Yet  do  not  seem  so  sad,  my  love ! 

Because  of  Helen's  fears! 
Swiftly  the  flying  minutes  move, 
And  though  we  weep  to-day,  my  love, 

Heavy  and  bitter  tears. 
There'll  be,  fxir  every  tear  that  strays, 
A  thousand  smiles  in  other  days  I" 


lOJi        EEMLN'ISCElsCES    OF    MY    YOUTH. 


REIMIXISCEXCES   OF  MY   YOUTH. 

'  'I'tere's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give,  like  that  it  takes  away. 
"When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in  feeling";  dull 
decay." — Byron. 

Scene  of  my  best  and  brightest  years  I 
Scene  of  my  childhood's  joys  and  fears' 
Again  I  gaze  on  thee  at  last ; 
And  dreams  of  the  forgotten  past, 
Robed  in  the  visionary  hues 
That  Memory  llings  on  all  she  vie-\vs, 
Come  fleeting  o'er  me! — I  could  look 
Unwearied  on  this  babbling  brook, 
And  lie  beneath  this  aged  oak, 
And  listen  to  its  raven's  croak, 
And  bound  upon  my  native  plain, — ■ 
Till  Fancy  made  me  Boy  again ! 
I  could  forget  the  pain  and  strife 
Of  manhood's  dark,  deceitful  life ; 
I  could  forget  the  ceaseless  toil, 
The  hum  of  cities,  and  the  coil 
That  Interest  Sings  upon  our  hearts, 
As  Candour's  faded  glow  departs; 
I  could  forget  whatever  care 
It  has  been  mine  to  see  or  share, 


REMINISCENCES    OF   MY    YOUTH.        105 

And  be  as  playful  and  as  wild 

As  when — a  dear  and  wayward  child — 

I  dwelt  upon  this  fairy  spot, 

All  reckless  of  a  bitterer  lot. 

Then  Glee  was  high,  and  on  my  tongue 

The  happy  laugli  of  Folly  hung. 

And  Innocence  looked  bright  on  Youth, 

And  all  was  bliss,  and  all  was  truth. 

There  is  no  change  upon  the  scene, 
My  native  plain  is  gayly  green  ; 
Yon  oak  still  braves  the  wintry  air, 
The  raven  is  not  silent  there ; 
Beneath  my  foot  the  simple  rill 
Flows  on  in  noisy  wildness  still. 
Nature  hath  sufiered  no  decay ; 
Her  lordly  children !  where  are  they  ? 
Friends  of  my  pure  and  sinless  age, 
The  good,  the  jocund,  and  tlie  sage  ; 
Gone  is  the  light  your  kindness  slied, 
In  silence  have  ye  changed  or  fled; 
Ye  and  your  dwellings ! — yet  I  hear 
Your  well-known  voices  in  mine  ear, 
And  see  your  faces  beaming  round. 
Like  magic  shades  on  haiinted  ground. 

Hark!  as  they  murmur  down  the  dt-ll, 
A  lingering  tale  those  voices  tell ; 
And  while  they  flit  in  vacant  air, 


106        SEMINISCENCES    OF  MY   YOUTH. 

A  beauteous  smile  those  faces  wear. 
Alas !  I  turn  my  dreaming  eyes, 
The  lovely  vision  fades  and  flies ; 

The  tale  is  done — 

The  smile  is  gone — 
I  am  a  stranger, — and  alone. 

Within  yon  humble  cottage,  where 
The  fragrant  woodbine  scents  the  air, 
And  the  neat  door  looks  fair  to  view. 
Seen  through  its  leafy  avenue, 
The  matron  of  the  Village  School 
Maintained  her  ancient  state  and  rule. 
The  dame  was  rigid  and  severe, 
"With  much  to  love,  but  more  to  fear  • 
She  was  my  nurse  in  infancy ; 
And  as  I  sat  upon  her  knee, 
And  listened  to  her  stories,  told 
In  dialect  of  Doric  mould, 
"\Yhile  wonders  still  on  wonders  gvew. 
I  marvelled  if  the  tale  were  true ; 
And  all  she  said  of  valorous  knight, 
And  beauteous  dame,  and  love,  and  figh* 
Enchanter  fierce,  and  goblin  sly, 
My  childhood  heard  right  greedily. 
At  last  the  wand  of  magic  broke. 
The  tale  was  ended ;  and  she  spoke 
Of  learning's  everlasting  well. 
And  said,  "I  ought  to  learn  to  spell;" 


KEMESriSCENCES    OF   IVIT   YOUTH.         107 

And  then  slie  talked  of  sound  and  sense ; 
Of  verbs  and  adverbs,  mood  and  tense ; 
And  then  she  would  with  care  disclose 
The  treasured  Primer's  lettered  rows — 
Whereat  my  froward  rage  spoke  out, 
In  cry  and  passion,  frown  and  pout, 
And  with  a  sad  and  loathing  look, 
I  shrank  from  that  enchanted  book. 

Oh!  sweet  were  those  untutored  years, 
Their  joys  and  pains,  their  hopes  and  fears ; 
There  was  a  freshness  in  them  all 
Which  we  may  taste,  but  not  recall. 
Fo  !  man  must  never  more  enjoy 
The  thoughts,  the  passions  of  the  boy, 
The  aspirations  high  and  bold. 
Unseen,  unguided,  uncontrolled ; 
The  first  ambition,  and  the  pride 
That  youthful  bosoms  feel  and  hide ; 
The  longings  after  manhood's  sun, 
Which  end  in  clouds — as  mine  have  done. 

In  yonder  neat  abode,  withdrawn 
From  strangers  by  its  humble  lawn. 
Which  the  neat  shrubbery  enshrouds 
From  scrutiny  of  passing  crowds. 
The  Pastor  of  the  Village  dwelt : 
To  him  with  clasping  hands  I  knelt. 
When  first  he  taught  my  lips  to  pray, 


108        KEMINISCEXCES    OF    MY   YOUTH. 

Mj  steps  to  walk  in  Virtue's  way, 

My  heart  to  honour  and  to  love 

The  God  that  ruleth  from  above. 

He  was  a  man  of  sorrows ; — Care 

"Was  seated  on  his  hoary  hair ; 

His  cheek  was  colourless  ;  his  brow 

"Was  furrowed  o'er,  as  mine  is  now; 

His  earliest  youth  had  fled  in  tears. 

And  grief  was  on  his  closing  years. 

But  still  lie  met,  with  soul  resigned, 

The  day  of  mourning ;  and  his  mind, 

xseneath  its  load  of  woe  and  pain. 

Might  deeply  feel,  but  not  complain ; 

And  Virtue  o'er  his  forehead's  snows 

Had  thrown  an  air  of  meek  repose, 

More  lovely  than  the  hues  that  streak 

The  bloom  of  childhood's  laughing  cheek ; 

It  seemed  to  tell  the  holy  rest 

That  will  not  leave  the  righteous  breast, 

The  trust  in  One  that  died  to  save, 

The  hope  that  looks  beyond  the  grave, 

The  calm  of  unpretending  worth, 

The  bliss  that  is  not  of  the  earth. 

And  he  would  smile;  but  in  his  smile 

Sadness  would  seem  to  lurk  the  while : 

Child  as  I  was,  I  could  not  bear 

To  look  upon  that  placid  air; 

I  felt  the  tear-drop  in  mine  eye, 

And  wished  to  weep,  and  knew  not  why. 


REinmSCENCES    OF   MY    YOUTH.         109 

He  had  one  daughter. — !Many  years 
Have  fleeted  o'er  me,  shice  my  tears 
Fell  on  that  form  of  quiet  grace, 
That  humble  brow,  and  beauteous  face. 
She  parted  from  this  world  of  ill 
"When  I  was  yet  a  child :  but  still, 
Until  my  heart  shall  cease  to  beat, 
That  countenance  so  mildly  sweet, 
That  kind  blue  eye,  and  golden  hair, 
Eternally  are  graven  there. 
I  see  her  still,  as  when  she  stood 
In  the  ripe  bloom  of  womanhood ; 
Yet  deigning,  where  I  led,  to  stray, 
And  mingle  in  my  childhood's  play ; 
Or  sought  my  father's  dwelling-place, 
And  clasped  me  in  hei*  fond  embrace ; 
A  friend — when  I  had  none  beside ; 
A  mother — when  my  mother  died. 

Poor  Ellen !  she  is  now  forgot 
Upon  the  hearths  of  this  dear  spot ; 
And  they,  to  whom  her  bounty  came. 
They,  who  would  dwell  upon  her  name 
With  raptured  voice,  as  if  they  found 
Hope,  comfort,  riches,  in  the  sound, 
Have  ceased  to  think  how  Ellen  li^'d  :  — 
Why  should  they  sorrow  for  the  dead* 
Perhaps,  around  the  festive  board, 
Some  aged  chroniclers  record 


110        KEMmiSCENCES    OF   MY   YOUTH. 

Her  hopes,  her  virtues,  and  her  tomb 
And  then  a  sudden,  silent  gloom 
Creeps  on  the  lips  that  smiled  before, 
And  jest  is  still,  and  mirth  is  o'er. 
She  was  so  beauteous  in  her  dress 
Of  unaffected  loveliness, 
So  bright,  and  so  beneficent. 
That  you  might  deem  some  fairy  sent 
To  hush  the  helpless  orphan's  fears. 
And  dry  the  widow's  gushing  tears. 
She  moved  in  beauty,  like  the  star 
That  shed  its  lustre  from  afar, 
To  tell  the  wisest  on  the  earth 
The  tidings  of  a  Saviour's  birth ; 
So  pure,  so  cheering  was  her  ray — 
So  quickly  did  it  die  away. 

There  came  a  dark,  infectious  Pest 
To  break  the  hamlet's  tranquil  rest ; 
It  came — it  breathed  on  Ellen's  face ; 
And  so  she  went  to  Death's  embrace, 
A  blooming  and  a  sinless  bride, — 
And  how,  I  knew  not — but  she  died. 

I  was  the  inmate  of  her  home. 
And  knew  not  why  she  did  not  come 
To  cheer  my  melancholy  mood ; 
Her  father  wept  in  solitude ; 
The  servants  wore  a  look  of  woe, 


EEMINISCENCES    OF   MY   YOUTH.         Ill 

Their  steps  were  soft,  their  whispers  low  ; 
And  when  I  asked  them  why  they  sighed, 
They  shook  their  heads,  and  turned  aside. 

I  entered  that  forbidden  room ! 

All  things  were  still !  a  deathlike  gloom 

Stole  on  me,  as  I  saw  her  lie 

In  her  white  vest  of  purity. 

She  seemed  to  smile !  her  lips  were  wet, 

The  bloom  was  on  her  features  yet: 

I  looked!  at  first  I  thought  she  slept — 
But  when  her  accents  did  not  bless — 
And  when  her  arms  did  not  caress — 
And  when  I  marked  her  quiet  air, 
And  saw  that  soul  was  wanting  there  — 

I  sat  me  on  the  ground,  and  wept! 


112  SUKLT    HALL. 


SURLY  HALL. 

"Mercy  o'  me,  what  a  multitude  are  herel 
They  grow  still,  too,  from  all  parls  they  are  coming. 
As  if  we  kept  a  fair  here !" — Shakspeare. 

The  sun  hath  shed  a  mellower  beam, 
Fair  Thames,  upon  thy  silver  stream, 
And  air  and  water,  earth  and  heaven, 
Lie  in  the  calm  repose  of  even. 
How  silently  the  breeze  moves  on, 
Flutters,  and  whispers,  and  is  gone ! 
How  calmly  does  the  quiet  sky 
Sleep  in  its  cold  serenity ! 
Alas !  how  sweet  a  scene  were  here 
For  shepherd  or  for  sonneteer  ; 
How  fit  the  place,  how  fit  the  time, 
For  making  love,  or  making  rhyme ! 
But  though  the  sun's  descending  ray 
Smiles  warmly  on  the  close  of  day, 
'Tis  not  to  gaze  upon  his  light 
That  Eton's  sons  are  here  to-night ; 
And  though  the  river,  calm  and  clear, 
Makes  music  to  the  poet's  ear, 
Tis  not  to  listen  to  the  sound 
That  Eton's  sons  are  thronging  round. 


SUKLY    HALL.  113 

The  sun  unheeded  may  decline. 
Bine  eyes  send  out  ,i  brighter  shine ; 
The  wave  may  cease  its  gurgling  moan, 
Glad  voices  have  a  sweeter  tone; 
For,  in  our  calendar  of  bliss, 
"We  have  no  hour  so  gay  as  this, 
When  the  kind  hearts  and  brilliant  eyes 
Of  those  we  know,  and  love,  and  prize, 
Are  come  to  cheer  the  captive's  thrall, 
And  smile  vT{:)on  his  festival. 

Stay,  Pegasus, — and  let  me  ask, 
Ere  I  go  onward  in  my  task, 
Pray,  reader, — were  you  ever  here 
Just  at  this  season  of  the  year  ? 
jS'o? — then  the  end  of  next  July 
Should  bring  you  with  admiring  eye, 
To  hear  us  row,  and  see  us  row, 
And  cry — "How  fast  them  boys  does  go!" 
For  Father  Thames  beholds  to-night 
A  thousand  visions  of  delight : 
Tearing  and  swearing,  jeering,  cheering, 
Lame  steeds  to  right  and  left  careering, 
.Displays,  dismays,  disputes,  distresses, 
Ruffling  of  temper,  and  of  dresses; 
Wounds  on  the  heart,  and  on  the  knuckles; 
Losing  of  patience,  and  of  buckles. 
An  interdict  is  laid  on  Latin, 
And  scholars  smirk  in  silk  and  satin ; 
Vol.  IL— 8 


114  SURLY    HALL. 

And  dandies  start  their  thinnest  pumps, 
And  Michael  Oakley's  in  the  dumps ; 
And  there  is  naught  beneath  the  sun, 
But  dash  and  splash,  and  falls  and  fun. 

Lord !  what  would  be  the  cynic's  mirth, 
If  fate  would  lift  him  to  the  earth, 
And  set  his  tub,  with  magic  jump, 
Squat  down  beside  the  Brocas  clump ! 
"What  scoifs  the  sage  would*  utter  there, 
From  his  unpolished  elbow-chair. 
To  see  the  seamstress'  handiwork. 
The  Greek  confounded  with  the  Turk, 
Parisian  mix'd  with  Piedmontese, 
And  Persian  joined  to  Portuguese  ; 
And  mantles  short,  and  mantles  long, 
And  mantles  right,  and  mantles  wrong, 
Misshaped,  miscoloured,  and  misplaced, 
"With  what  the  tailor  calls — a  taste. 
And  then  the  badges,  and  the  boats. 
The  flags,  the  drums,  the  paint,  the  coats ; 
But  more  than  these,  and  more  than  all, 
The  pullers'  intermitted  call — 
"Easy!"— "Hard  all!"— -'Xow   pick   her 

up!" 
"Upon  my  life,  how  I  shall  sup!" 
Would  be  a  fine  and  merry  matter, 
To  wake  the  sage's  love  of  satire. 
Kind  readers,  at  my  laughing  age, 


SURLY    HALL.  115 

I  thank  my  stars  I'm  not  a  sage ; 

I,  an  unthinking,  scribbling  elf, 

Love  to  please  others, — and  myself ; 

Therefore  I  fly  a  malo  joco. 

But  like  desipej'e  in  loco, 

Excuse  me  that  I  wander  so  ; 

All  modern  i)ens  digress,  you  know. 

Now  to  my  theme!     Thou  Being  gay, 
Houri  or  goddess,  nymph  or  fay, 
"Whoe'er,  whate'er,  where'er  thou  art, 
"Who,  with  thy  warm  and  kindly  heart, 
Hast  made  these  blest  abodes  thy  care ; 
Being  of  water,  earth,  or  air, 
Beneath  the  moonbeam  hasten  hither, 
Enjoy  thy  blessings  ere  they  wither. 
And  witness,  with  thy  gladdest  face, 
The  glories  of  thy  dwelling-place ! 

The  boat  puts  off! — throughout  the  crow  J 
The  tumult  thickens;  wide  and  loud 
The  din  re-echoes ;  man  and  horse 
Plunge  onward  in  their  mingled  course. 
Look  at  the  troop :  I  love  to  see 
Our  real  Etonian  Cavalry ; 
They  start  in  such  a  pretty  trim. 
And  such  sweet  scorn  of  life  and  limb. 
I  must  confess,  I  never  found 
A  horse  mach  worse  for  beine:  sound , 


116  SUKLY    HALL. 

I  wish  my  Nag  not  wholly  blind, 
And  like  to  have  a  tail  behind ; 
And  though  he  certainly  may  hear 
Correctly  with  a  single  eai", 
I  think,  to  look  genteel  and  neat, 
He  ought  to  have  his  two  complete. 
But  these  are  trifles !  olf  they  go 
Beside  the  wondering  River's  flow  ; 
And  if,  by  dint  of  spur  and  whip. 
They  shamble  on  without  a  trip, 
"Well  have  they  done !  I  make  no  question 
They're  shaken  into  good  digestion. 

I  and  my  Muse, — My  muse  and  I, 
Will  follow  with  the  Company, 
And  get  to  Surly  Hall  in  time 
To  make  a  Supper  and  a  Rhyme, 
Yes!  while  the  animating  crowd, 
The  gay,  and  fair,  and  kind,  and  proud, 
"With  eager  voice  and  eager  glance 
Wait  till  the  pageantry  advance. 
We'll  throw  around  a  hasty  view, 
And  try  to  get  a  sketch  or  two. 

First  in  the  race  is  William  Tag, 
Thalia's  most  industrious  fag : 
Whate'er  the  subject  he  essays 
To  dress  in  never-dying  lays, — 
A  chief,  a  cheese,  a  dearth,  a  dinner, 


SITRLY    HALL.  H' 

A  cot,  a  castle,  cards,  Corinna, 
Ilibernia,  Baffin's  Bay,  Parnassus, 
Beef,  Bonaparte,  Beer,  Bonassus, — 
Will  hath  his  ordered  words  and  rhymes 
For  various  scenes  and  various  times, 
"Which  suit  alike  for  this  or  that, 
And  come,  like  volunteers,  quite  pat. 
He  hath  his  Elegy,  or  Sonuet, 
For  Lucy's  bier,  or  Lucy's  bonnet ; 
And  celebrates,  with  equal  ardour, 
A  Monarch's  sceptre,  or  his  larder. 
Poor  William !  when  he  wants  a  hint, 
All  other  Poets  are  his  mint ; 
He  coins  his  epic,  or  his  lyric, 
His  satire,  or  his  panegyric, 
From  all  the  gravity  and  wit 
Of  what  the  ancients  thought  and  writ. 
Armed  with  his  Ovid  and  his  Flaccus, 
He  comes  like  thunder  to  attack  us; 
In  pilfered  mail  he  bursts  to  view. 
The  cleverest  thief  I  ever  knew. 
Thou  noble  Bard,  at  any  time 
Borrow  my  measure  and  my  rhyme ; 
Borrow  (I'll  cancel  all  the  debt) 
An  epigram  or  epithet; 
Borrow  my  mountains,  or  my  trees, 
My  paintings,  or  my  similes; 
Nay,  borrow  all  my  pretty  names, 
My  real  or  my  fancied  flames — 


118  SUELT    HALL. 

Eliza,  Alice,  Leonora, 
Mary,  Melissa,  and  Medora ; 
And  borrow  all  my  "mutual  vows," 
My  "ruby  lips,"  and  "cruel  bi'ows;" 
And  all  my  stupors,  and  my  startings, 
And  all  my  meetings,  and  my  partings ; 
Tlius  far,  my  friend,  you'll  find  me  willing, 
Borrow  all  things,  save  one — a  shilling ! 

Drunken,  and  loud,  and  mad,  and  rasli, 
Joe  Tarrell  wields  his  ceaseless  lash ; 
The  would-be  sportsman ;  o'er  the  sides 
Of  the  lank  charger  he  bestrides. 
The  foam  lies  painfully ;  and  blood 
Is  trickling  in  a  ruddier  flood, 
Beneath  the  fury  of  the  steel 
Projecting  from  his  arm^d  heel. 
E'en  from  his  childhood's  earliest  bloom, 
All  studies  that  become  a  groom, 
Eton's  S2)es  gregis,  honest  Joe, 
Or  knows,  or  would  be  thought  to  know ; 
He  picks  a  hunter's  hoof  quite  finely, 
And  spells  a  horse's  teeth  divinely. 
Prime  terror  of  molesting  duns, 
Sole  judge  of  greyhounds  and  of  guns, 
A  skilful  whip,  a  steady  shot, 
Joe  swears  he  is  ! — who  says  he's  not? 
And  then  he  has  such  knowing  faces 
For  all  the  week  of  Ascot  races, 


BUKLY    HALL.  119 

And  talks  with  such  a  mystic  speech, 
Uutangible  to  vulgar  reach, 
Of  Sultan,  Highflyer,  and  Ranter, 
Potatoes,  Quiz,  and  Tara  O'Shanter; 
Bay  colts  and  brown  colts,  sires  and  dams, 
Bribings  and  bullyings,  bets  and  bams; 
And  how  the  favourite  should  have  won, 
And  how  tlie  little  Earl  was  done; 
And  how  the  filly  failed  in  strength. 
And  how  some  faces  grew  in  length ; 
x\nd  how  some  people, — if  they'd  show. 
Know  something  more  than  others  know. 
Such  is  his  talk ;  and  while  we  wonder 
At  that  interminable  thunder, 
The  undiscriminating  snarler 
Astounds  the  ladies  in  the  parlour, 
And  broaches,  at  his  mother's  table. 
The  slang  of  kennel  and  of  stable. 
And  when  he's  drunk,  he  roars  before  ye 
One  excellent,  unfailing  story 
About  a  gun,  Lord  knows  how  long, 
With  a  discharge.  Lord  knows  how  strong; 
Which  always  needs  an  oath  and  frown 
To  make  the  monstrous  dose  go  down. 
Oh !  oft  and  oft  the  Muses  pray 
That  wondrous  tube  may  burst  one  day. 
And  then  the  world  will  ascertain 
Whether  its  master  hath  a  brain. 
Then,  on  the  stone  that  hides  his  sleep. 


120  SUELY    HALL. 

These  accents  shall  be  graven  deep ; 
Or,  "Upton"*  and  "0.  B."  between, 
Shine  in  the  "Sporting  Magazine:" 
"  Civil  to  none,  except  his  brutes, 
Polished  in  naught,  except  his  boots — 
Here  lie  the  relics  of  Joe  Tarrell ; 
Also,  Joe  Tarrell's  double-barrel!" 

Ho  ! — by  the  muttered  sounds  that  slip. 
Unwilling,  from  his  curling  lip ; 
By  the  gray  glimmer  of  his  eye, 
That  shines  so  imrelentingiy ; 
By  the  stern  sneer  upon  liis  snout — 
I  know  the  Critic,  Andrew  Crout ! 
The  Boy-reviler !  amply  filled 
With  venomed  virulence,  and  skilled 
To  look  on  what  is  good  and  fair, 
And  find,  or  make,  a  blemish  there. 
For  Fortune  to  his  cradle  sent 
Self-satisfying  Discontent; 
And  he  hath  caught  from  cold  Keviews, 
The  one  great  talent,  to  abuse ; 
And  so  he  sallies  sternly  forth, 
Like  the  cold  Genius  of  the  North, 
To  check  the  heart's  exuberant  fulness, 
And  chill  good-humour  into  dulness. 
Where'er  he  comes,  his  fellows  shrink 

*  Two  constant  supporters  of  that  instructive  miscc!laDy 


SUELY   HAJLL.  121 

Before  his  awful  nod  find  wink  ; 

And  whensoe'er  these  features  plastic 

Assume  the  savage  or  sarcastic, 

Mirth  stands  abashed,  and  Laughter  flies, 

And  Humour  faints,  and  Quibble  dies. 

How  sour  he  seems! — and,  hark  !  he  spoke ; 

We'll  stop  and  listen  to  the  croak ; 

'Twill  charm  us  if  these  happy  lays 

Are  honoured  by  a  fool's  dispraise ! — 

"  You  think  the  boats  well  manned  this  year ! 

To  you  they  may  perhaps  appear! — 

I,  who  have  seen  those  frames  of  steel, 

Tuekfield,  and  Dixon,  and  Bulteel, 

Can  swear, — no  matter  what  I  swear ! 

Only — things  are  not  as  they  were  I 

And  then  our  Cricket ! — think  of  that! 

"We  ha'nt  a  tolerable  Bat ; 

It's  very  true  that  Mr.  Tucker, 

Who  puts  the  Field  in  such  a  pucker. 

Contrives  to  make  his  fifty  Euns  ; — 

What  then? — we  had  a  Hardinge  once! 

As  for  our  talents,  where  are  they? 

Griffin  and  Grildrig  had  their  day ; 

And  who's  the  star  of  modern  time? 

Octosyllabic  Peregrine; 

Who  pirates,  puns,  and  talks  sedition, 

Without  a  moment's  intermission  I 

And  if  he  did  not  get  a  lift, 

Sometimes,  from  me  and  Doctor  Swift, 


122  SUSLY    HAI.L. 

I  can't  tell  what  the  deuce  he'd  do!-- 
But  this,  you  know,  is  entre  nous  ! 
I've  tried  to  talk  him  into  taste, 
But  found  my  labour  quite  misplaced ; 
He  nibs  his  pen,  and  twists  his  ear, 
And  says  he's  deaf,  and  cannot  hear; 
And  if  I  mention  right  or  rule, — 
Egad !  he  takes  me  for  a  fool !" 

Gazing  upon  this  varied  scene 
With  a  new  Artist's  absent  mien, 
I  see  thee,  silent  and  alone, 
My  friend,  ingenious  Hamilton. 
I  see  thee  there — (nay,  do  not  blush) — 
Knight  of  the  Pallette  and  the  Brush, 
Dreaming  of  straight  and  crooked  lines, 
And  planning  portraits  and  designs. 

I  like  him  hugely  ! — well  I  wis 
No  despicable  skill  is  his, 
"Whether  his  sportive  canvas  sliows 
Arabia's  sands,  or  Zembla's  snows, 
A  lion,  or  a  bed  of  lilies, 
Fair  Caroline,  or  fierce  Achilles ; 
I  love  to  see  him  taking  down 
A  school-fellow's  unconscious  frown, 
Describing  twist,  grimace,  contortion, 
In  most  becoming  disproportion, 
While  o'er  his  merry  paper  glide 


STIRLT    HALL.  123 

Rivers  of  wit;  and  by  his  side 

Caricatura  takes  lior  stand, 

Inspires  the  tliooght,  and  guides  the  liaud ; 

I  love  to  see  his  honoured  books 

Adorned  with  rivulets  and  brooks; 

Troy,  frowning  with  her  ancient  towers, 

Or  Ida,  gay  with  fruits  and  flowers ; 

I  love  to  see  fantastic  shapes. 

Dragons  and  Griflins,  Birds  and  Apes, 

And  Pigmy  Forms,  and  Forms  Gigantic, 

Forms  Natural,  and  Forms  Eomantic, 

Of  Dwarfs  and  Ogres,  Dames  and  Knights, 

Scrawled  by  the  side  of  Homer's  fights. 

And  portraits  daubed  on  Maro's  poems. 

And  profiles  pinned  to  Tully's  proems  ; 

In  short,  I  view  with  partial  eyes 

Whate'er  my  brother-painter  tries. 

To  each  belongs  his  own  utensil, 

I  sketch  with  pen,  as  he  with  pencil ; 

And  each,  with  pencil  or  with  pen. 

Hits  off  a  likeness  now  and  then. 

He  drew  me  once — the  spiteful  creature ! 

'Twas  voted  "like"  in  every  feature; 

It  might  have  been  so ! — ('twas  lopsided, 

And  squinted  worse  than  ever  I  did.j 

However,  from  that  hapless  day 

1  owed  the  debt,  which  here  I  pay; 

And  now  I'll  give  my  Mend  a  hint:— 

''  Unless  you  want  to  shine  in  print. 


124  SUELY    HALL. 

Paint  lords  and  ladies,  nynaphs  and  fairies, 
And  demi-gods,  and  dromedaries ; 
But  never  be  an  author's  creditor, 
Nor  paint  the  picture  of  an  editor  !" 

Who  is  the  youth  with  stare  confounded, 
And  tender  arms  so  neatly  rounded ; 
And  moveless  eyes,  aud  glowing  face, 
And  attitude  of  studied  grace  ? 
Now,  Venus,  pour  your  lustre  o'er  us ! 
Your  would-be  servant  stands  before  us. 
Hail,  Oorydon !  let  others  blame 
The  fury  of  his  fictioned  flame ; 
I  love  to  hear  the  beardless  youth 
Talking  of  constancy  and  truth ; 
Sweai'ing  more  darts  are  in  his  liver 
Than  ever  gleamed  in  Cupid's  quiver ; 
And  wondering  at  those  hearts  of  stone, 
Which  never  melted  like  his  own. 
Oh!  when  I  look  on  Fashion's  moth, 
Eaptin  his  visions,  and  his  cloth, 
I  would  not,  for  a  nation's  gold, 
Disturb  the  dream,  or  spoil  tlie  fold  ! 

And  who  the  maid  whose  gilded  chain 
Hath  bound  the  heart  of  such  a  swain  ? 
Ah!  look  on  those  surrounding  Graces! 
There  is  no  lack  of  pretty  faces ; 
M 1,  the  Goddess  of  the  night, 


8UELY    HALL.  125 

Looks  beantiful  with  all  her  might ; 

And  M ,  in  that  simple  dress, 

Inthralls  us  more,  by  studying  less ; 

D ,  in  your  becoming  pride, 

Ye  march  to  conquest  side  by  side, 

And  A ,  thou  fleetest  by. 

Bright  in  thine  arch  simplicity ; 

Slight  ai'e  the  links  thy  power  hath  wreathed, 

Yet,  by  the  tone  thy  voice  hath  breathed, 

By  thy  glad  smile,  and  ringlets  curled, 

I  would  not  break  them  for  the  world ! 

But  this  is  idle !  Paying  court 

I  know  was  never  yet  mj  forte; 

And  all  I  say  of  Jfvmph  and  Queen, 

To  cut  it  short,  can  only  mean, 

That  when  I  throw  my  gaze  around, 

I  see  much  beauty  on  the  ground. 

Hark !  hark !  a  mellowed  note 
Over  the  water  seemed  to  float  I 

Hark !  the  note  repeated  ! 
A  sweet,  and  soft,  and  soothing  strain 
Echoed,  and  died,  and  rose  again, 
As  if  the  xTymphs  of  Fairy  reign 
Were  holding  to-night  their  revel  rout, 
And  pouring  their  fragrant  voices  out. 

On  the  blue  waters  seated. 
Hai'k  to  the  tremulous  tones  that  flow, 
And  tho  voice  of  the  boatmen  as  thev  row  ! 


126  SUELY    HALL. 

Cheerfully  to  the  heart  they  go, 

And  touch  a  thousand  pleasant  strings 
Of  Triumph,  and  Pride,  and  Hope,  and  Joy, 
And  thoughts  that  are  only  known  to  Boy, 

And  young  Imaginings ! 
The  note  is  near,  the  Voice  comes  clear, 
And  we  catch  its  Echo  on  the  ear 

"With  a  feeling  of  delight; 
And  as  tlie  gladdening  sounds  we  hear, 
There's  many  au  eager  listener  here, 

And  many  a  sti  aining  sight. 

One  moment, — and  ye  see 
Where,  fluttering  quick,  as  the  breezes  blow. 
Backwards  and  forwards,  to  and  fro. 
Bright  with  the  beam  of  retiring  day, 
Old  Eton's  flag  on  its  watery  way 

Moves  on  triumphantly ; 
But  what,  that  ancient  poets  have  told 
Of  Amphitrite's  Car  of  Gold, 
With  the  Nymphs  behind,  and  the  Xymphs 

before, 
And  the  Nereid's  song,  and  the  Triton's  roar, 

Could  equal  half  the  pride 
That  heralds  the  Monarch's  plashing  oar 

Over  the  swelling  tide  ? 
And,  look! — they  land,  those  gallant  crews, 
With  their  jackets  light,  and  their  bellying 
trews ; 


6UELY    HALL.  127 

And  Ashley  walks,  applauded,  by, 
With  a  world's  talent  in  his  eye  ; 
And  Kinglake,  dear  to  Poetry, 

And  dearer  to  his  friends ; 
Hibernian  Roberts,  you  are  there, 
With  that  unthinking,  merry  stare, 

Which  still  its  influence  lends 
To  make  us  drown  our  Devils  blue. 
In  laughing  at  ourselves — and  you  ! 
Still  I  could  lengthen  out  the  tale, 
And  sing  Sir  Thomas  with  his  ale. 

To  all  that  like  to  read  ; 
Still  I  could  choose  to  linger  long, 
Where  Friendship  bids  the  willing  song 

Flow  out  for  honest  Meade  ! 

Yet,  e'en  on  this  triumphant  day, 

One  thought  of  grief  will  rise  ; 
And  though  I  bid  my  fancy  play, 
And  jest  and  laugh  through  all  the  lay, 
Yet  sadness  still  will  have  its  way. 

And  burst  the  vain  disguise  ! 
Yes !  when  the  pageant  shall  have  passed, 
I  shall  have  look'd  upon  my  last ; 
T  shall  not  e'er  behold  again 
Our  pullers'  unremitted  strain  ; 
Nor  listen  to  the  charming  cry 
Of  contest  or  of  victory, 
That  speaks  what  those  young  bosoms  feel, 


128  SUELY    HALL. 

As  keel  is  pressing  fast  on  keel ; 

Oh  !  bright  these  glories  still  shall  be. 

But  they  shall  never  dawn  for  me. 

E'en  when  a  Realm's  Congratulation 

Sang  Pseans  for  the  Coronation ; 

Amidst  the  pleasure  that  was  round  me, 

A  melancholy  Spirit  found  me  ; 

And  while  all  else  were  singing  "lo!" 

I  couldn't  speak  a  word  but  "Heigh  Lo  '" 

And  so,  instead  of  laughing  gayly, 

I  dropped  a  tear,  and  wrote  my  "  Vale." 

VALE. 
Eton  !  the  Monarch  of  thy  prayers 
E'en  now  receives  his  load  of  cares  ; 
Throned  in  the  consecrated  choir. 
He  takes  the  sceptre  of  his  sire, 
And  wears  the  crown  his  father  bore, 
And  swears  the  oath  his  father  swore  ; 
And  therefore  sounds  of  joy  resound, 
Fair  Eton !  on  thy  classic  ground. 
A  gladder  gale  is  round  tliee  breathed. 
And  on  thy  mansions  thou  hast  wreathed 
A  thousand  lamps,  whose  various  hue 
"Waits  but  the  night  to  burst  to  view  ; 
"Woe  to  the  poets  that  refuse 
To  wake  and  woo  their  idle  Muse, 
"When  those  glad  notes — "  God  save  the  Kiiu 
From  hill,  and  vale,  and  hainlet  ring ! 


8UKLT    HALL.  129 

Hark,  how  the  loved,  inspiring  tune 

Peals  fortli  from  every  loyal  loon 

Who  loves  his  country,  and  excels 

In  drinking  beer,  or  ringing  bells ! 

It  is  a  day  of  shouts  and  greeting, 

A  day  of  idleness  and  eating ; 

And  triumph  swells  in  every  soul, 

And  mighty  beeves  are  roasted  whole  ; 

And  ale,  uubouglit,  is  set  a-running. 

And  Pleasure's  hymn  grows  rather  stunning  ; 

And  children  roll  upon  the  green. 

And  cry — "  Confusion  to  the  Queen  1" 

And  Sorrow  flies,  and  Labour  slumbers, 

And  Clio  pours  her  loudest  numbers ; 

And  hundreds  of  that  joyous  throng, 

"With  whom  my  life  had  lingered  long, 

Give  their  gay  raptures  to  the  gale 

In  one  united,  echoing — "  Hail !" 

I  took  the  harp,  I  smote  the  string, 
I  strove  to  soar  on  Fancy's  wing  ; 
And  murmur  in  my  Sovereign's  praise 
The  latest  of  my  boyhood's  lays. 
Alas!  the  theme  was  too  di\nne 
To  suit  so  weak  a  Muse  as  mine ; 
I  saw,  I  felt  it  could  not  be  ; 
No  song  of  triumph  flows  from  mo  : 
The  harp  from  which  those  sounds  ye  ask 
Is  all  unfit  for  such  a  task ; 

Vor,.  IT.— 9 


130  SUELY    HALL. 

And  the  last  eclio  of  its  tone, 
Dear  Eton,  must  be  thine  alone  1 

A  few  short  hours,  and  I  am  borne 
Far  from  the  fetters  I  have  worn  ; 
A  few  short  hours,  and  I  am  free  ! — 
And  yet  I  shrink  from  liberty, 
And  look,  and  long  to  give  my  soul 
Back  to  thy  cherishing  control. 
Control !  ah,  no  !  thy  chain  was  meant 
Far  less  for  bond  than  ornament ; 
And  though  its  links  be  firmly  set, 
I  never  found  them  gall  me  yet. 
Oh  !  still  through  many  checkered  years. 
Mid  anxious  toils,  and  hopes,  and  fears. 
Still  I  have  doted  on  thy  fame. 
And  only  gloried  in  thy  name. 
How  I  have  loved  thee !     Thou  hast  boon 
My  hope,  my  mistress,  and  my  Queen  ; 
I  always  found  thee  kind,  and  thou 
Hast  never  seen  me  weep — till  now. 
I  knew  that  Time  was  fleeting  fast, 
I  knew  thy  pleasures  could  not  last, 
I  knew  too  well  that  riper  age 
Must  step  upon  a  busier  stage  ; 
Yet  when  around  thine  ancient  towers 
I  passed  secure  my  tranquil  hours. 
Or  heard  beneath  thine  aged  trees 
The  drowsy  humming  of  the  bees, 


SURLY    HALL.  131 

Or  wandered  by  thy  winding  stream, 
I  would  not  check  my  fancy's  dream  ; 
Glad  in  my  transitory  bliss, 
I  recked  not  of  an  hour  like  this  ; 
And  now  the  truth  comes  swiftly  on, 
The  truth  I  would  not  think  upon  ; 
The  last  sad  thought,  so  oft  delayed,— 
"  These  joys  are  only  born  to  fade." 

Ye  Guardians  of  my  earliest  days ! 
Ye  Patrons  of  my  earliest  lays  ! 
Custom  reminds  me  that  to  you 
Thanks  and  farewell  to-day  are  due. 
Thanks  and  farewell  I  give  you,— not 
(As  some  that  leave  this  holy  spot) 
In  laboured  phrase,  and  polished  lie, 
"Wrought  by  the  forge  of  flattery, 
But  with  a  heart  that  cannot  tell 
The  half  of  what  it  feels  so  well. 
If  I  am  backward  to  express. 
Believe  my  love  is  not  the  less  ; 
Be  kind  as  you  are  wont,  and  view 
A  thousand  thanks  in  one  "Adieu!" 
My  future  life  shall  strive  to  show 
I  wish  to  pay  the  debt  I  owe  ; 
The  labours  that  ye  give  to  May, 
September's  fruits  shall  best  repay. 

And  you,  my  friends,  who  loved  to  sh.iro 
Whate'er  was  mine  of  sport  or  care  ; 


132  SUKLY    HALL. 

Antagonists  at  Fives  or  Chess, 
Friends  in  the  Phiv-ground  or  the  Presb, 
I  leave  ye  now,  and  all  that  rests 
Of  mutual  tastes,  and  loving  breasts, 
Is  the  lone  vision,  that  shall  corae, 
"Where'er  mv  studies  and  mv  home, 
To  cheer  mv  labour  and  my  pain, 
And  make  me  feel  a  boy  again. 

Yes!  when  at  last  I  sit  me  down, 
A  scholar,  in  my  cap  and  gown, — 
When  learned  Doctrines,  dark  and  deep. 
Move  me  to  passion  or  to  sleep, — 
When  Clio  yields  to  Logic's  wrangles. 
And  Long  and  Short  give  place  to  Angles. — 
When  stern  Mathesis  makes  it  treason 
To  like  a  rhyme,  or  scorn  a  reason,^ — 
With  aching  head,  and  weary  wit. 
Your  parted  friend  shall  often  sit. 
Till  Fancy's  magic  spell  hath  bound  him. 
And  lonely  musings  flit  around  liim  ; 
Then  shall  ye  come,  with  all  your  wiles 
Of  gladdening  sounds,  and  warming  smiles ; 
And  naught  shall  meet  his  eye  or  ear. 
Yet  sliall  he  deem  your  souls  are  near. 

Others  may  clothe  their  Valediction 
With  all  the  tinsel  charms  of  fiction ; 
And  one  may  sing  of  Father  Thames, 


SURLY    nALL.  133 

And  Naiads  with  a  hundred  names  ; 

And  find  a  Pindus  here,  and  own 

The  College  pump  a  Ilelicon ; 

And  search  for  Gods  about  the  College, 

Of  which  old  Homer  had  no  knowledge. 

And  one  may  eloquently  tell 

The  triumphs  of  the  Windsor  belle, 

And  sing  of  Mira's  lips  and  eyes 

In  oft-repeated  ecstasies ; 

Oh !  he  hath  much  and  wondrous  skill 

To  paint  the  looks  that  wound  and  kill, 

As  the  poor  maid  is  doomed  to  brook, 

Unconsciously,  her  lover's  look, 

And  smiles,  and  talks,  until  the  poet 

Hears  the  band  play,  and  does  not  know  it. 

To  speak  the  plain  and  simple  truth, 

I  always  was  a  jesting  youth, 

A  friend  to  merriment  and  fun, 

No  foe  to  quibble  and  to  pun  ; 

Therefore  I  cannpt  feign  a  tear  ; 

And,  now  that  I  have  uttered  here 

A  few  imrounded  accents,  bred 

More  from  the  heart  than  from  the  head 

Honestly  felt,  and  plainly  told. 

My  lyre  is  still,  my  fancy  cold. 


POEMS  OF  LIFE  AW  MMNERS. 

PART  II. 
(Eton,  1S2&-1S32.) 


EVERY-DAY   CHARACTERS. 


I.— THE  VICAR. 

Some  years  ago,  ere  Time  and  Taste 

Had  turned  our  parish  topsy-turvy, 
When  Darnel  Park  was  Darnel  "Waste, 

And  roads  ati  little  known  as  scurvy, 
The  man  Avho  lost  his  way  between 

St.  Mary's  Hill  and  Sandy  Thicket, 
Was  always  shown  across  the  Green, 

And  guided  to  the  Parson's  wicket. 

Back  flew  the  bolt  of  lissom  lath  ; 

Fair  Margaret,  in  her  tidy  Idrtle, 
Led  the  lorn  traveller  up  the  path, 

Through  clean-clipped  rows  of  box  and  myrtle ; 
And  Don  and  Sancho,  Tramp  and  Tray, 

Upon  the  parlour  steps  collected. 
Wagged  all  their  tails,  and  seemed  to  say, 

"  Our  master  knows  you ;  you're  expected  !" 

Up  rose  the  Eeverend  Doctor  Brown, 
Up  rose  the  Doctor's  winsome  marrow, 


138  THE    VICAK. 

The  lady  laid  her  knitting  down, 

Her  husband  clasped  his  ponderous  Barrow ; 
"Whate'er  the  stranger's  caste  or  creed, 

Pundit  or  papist,  saint  or  sinner. 
He  found  a  stable  for  his  steed. 

And  welcome  for  himself,  and  dinner. 

If,  when  he  reached  his  journey's  end. 

And  warmed  himself  in  court  or  college. 
He  had  not  gained  an  honest  friend, 

And  twenty  curious  scraps  of  knowledge  ;— 
If  he  departed  as  he  came, 

"With  no  new  light  on  love  or  liquor, — 
Good  sooth,  the  traveller  was  to  blame. 

And  not  the  Vicarage,  nor  the  Vicar. 

His  talk  was  like  a  stream  which  runs 

With  rapid  change  from  rocks  to  roses  :    • 
It  slipped  from  politics  to  puns ; 

It  passed  from  Mahomet  to  Moses  •, 
Beginning  with  the  laws  which  keep 

The  planets  in  their  radiant  courses, 
And  ending  with  some  precept  deep 

Fur  dressing  eels  or  shoeing  horses. 

He  was  a  shrewd  and  sound  divine. 
Of  loud  Dissent  the  mortal  terror; 

And  when,  by  dint  of  page  and  line, 
He  "stablished  Truth,  or  started  Error, 


THE    VICAB.  139 

The  Baptist  found  liiui  far  too  deep  ; 

Tlie  Deist  sighed  with  saving  sorrow  ; 
And  the  lean  Levite  went  to  sleep, 

And  dreaJTied  i)f  tasting  j)ork  to-morrow. 

His  ^ermon  never  said  or  showed 

That  Earth  is  foul,  that  Heaven  is  gracious, 
Without  refreshment  on  the  road 

From  Jerome,  or  from  Athanasius ; 
And  sure  a  righteous  zeal  inspired 

The  hand  and  head  that  penned  and  phmned 
For  all  who  understood,  admired,  [them. 

And  some  who  did  not  understand  them. 

He  wrote,  too,  in  a  quiet  way, 

Small  treatises,  and  smaller  verses ; 
And  sage  remarks  on  chalk  and  clay. 

And  hints  to  noble  lords  and  nurses ; 
True  histories  of  last  year's  ghost, 

Lines  to  a  ringlet  or  a  turban ; 
And  trifles  to  the  Morning  Post, 

And  nothings  for  Sylvanus  Urban. 

He  did  not  think  all  mischief  fair. 
Although  he  had  a  knack  of  joking ; 

He  did  not  make  himself  a  bear, 

Although  he  had  a  taste  for  smoking : 

And  when  religious  sects  ran  mad, 
He  held,  in  spite  of  all  his  learning, 


140  THE    VICAE. 

That  if  a  man's  belief  is  bad, 

It  will  not  be  improved  by  burning. 

And  he  was  kind,  and  loved  to  sit 

In  the  low  hut  or  garnished  cottage, 
And  praise  the  farmer's  homely  wit. 

And  share  the  widow's  homelier  pottage  : 
At  his  approach  complaint  grew  mild, 

And  when  his  hand  unbarred  the  shutter, 
The  clammy  lips  of  Fever  smiled 

The  welcome  which  they  could  not  utter. 

He  always  had  a  tale  for  me 

Of  Julius  Cgesar  or  of  Venus : 
From  him  I  learned  the  rule  of  three, 

Cat's-cradle,  leap-frog,  and  Qn(B  genus : 
I  used  to  singe  his  powdered  wig, 

To  steal  the  staff  he  put  such  trust  in ; 
And  make  the  puppy  dance  a  jig 

When  he  began  to  quote  Augustine. 

Alack  the  change !  in  vain  I  look 

For  haunts  in  which  my  boyhood  trifled ; 
The  level  lawn,  the  trickling  brook, 

The  trees  I  climbed,  the  beds  I  rifled : 
The  church  is  larger  than  before  ; 

You  reach  it  by  a  carriage  entry : 
It  holds  three  hundred  people  more  : 

And  pews  are  fitted  up  for  gentry. 


QUINCE.  141 

Sit  in  the  Vicar's  seat :  you'll  hear 

The  doctrine  of  a  gentle  Johnian, 
Whose  hand  is  white,  whose  tone  is  clear, 

Whose  phrase  is  very  Ciceronian. 
Where  is  the  old  man  laid? — look  down, 

And  construe  on  the  slab  before  you, 
ITio  Jaoet  GVLIELMVS  BROWF, 

ViR  Nulla  non  donandus  lauea. 

(1520.) 


II.— QUINCE. 

"  F.allentis  scuiita  vitae." — Horace. 

Near  a  small  village  in  the  West, 

Where  many  very  worthy  people 
Eat,  drink,  play  whist,  and  do  their  best 

To  guard  from  evil  Church  and  Stee[)le, 
There  stood — alas !  it  stands  no  more ! 

A  tenement  of  brick  and  plaster, 
Of  which,  for  forty  years  and  four. 

My  good  friend  Quince  was  lord  and  master ! 

Welcome  was  he  in  hut  and  hall, 
To  maids  and  matrons,  peers  and  peasants, 


142  QUINCE. 

He  won  the  sympatMes  of  all, 

By  making  puns  and  making  presents ; 

Though  all  the  parish  were  at  strife, 
He  kept  liis  counsel  and  his  carriage, 

And  laughed,  and  loved  a  quiet  life, 

And  shrank  from  Chancery  suits  and — 
riage. 

Sound  was  his  claret  and  his  head  ; 

Warm  was  his  douhle  ale — and  feelings ; 
His  partners  at  the  whist-club  said, 

Tliat  he  was  faultless  in  his  dealings. 
He  went  to  church  but  once  a  week ; 

Yet  Dr.  Poundtext  always  found  him 
An  upright  man,  who  studied  Greek, 

And  liked  to  see  his  friends  around  him. 

Asylums,  hospitals,  and  Schools, 

He  used  to  swear  were  made  to  cozen ; 
All  who  subsci'ibed  to  theni  were  fools, 

And  he  subscribed  to  half  a  dozen  ; 
It  was  his  doctrine  that  the  poor 

Were  always  able,  never  willing ; 
And  so  the  beggar  at  his  door 

Had  first  abuse,  and  then  a  shilhng. 

Some  public  principles  he  had. 

But  was  no  flatterer,  nor  fretter ; 
Ke  rapped  his  box  when  things  were  bad, 


QUINCE.  143 

And  said,  "I  cannot  make  them  better!" 
And  much  he  loathed  the  patriot's  snort, 

And  much  he  scorned  the  placeman's  snuffle, 
And  cut  the  fiercest  quarrels  short, 

With — "  Patience,  gentlemen,  and  slmiBe." 

For  full  ten  years  his  pointer,  Speed, 

Had  couched  beneath  her  master's  table ; 
Tor  twice  ten  years  his  old  white  steed 

Had  fattened  in  his  master's  stable — 
Old  Quince  averred,  upon  his  troth. 

They  were  the  ugliest  beasts  in  Devon  ; 
And  none  knew  why  he  fed  them  both. 

With  his  own  hands,  six  days  in  seven. 

Whene'er  they  heard  his  ring  or  knock, 

Quicker  than  thought,  the  village  slatterns 
riung  down  the  novel,  smoothed  the  frock. 

And  took  up  Mrs.  Glasse,  and  patterns ; 
Adine  was  studying  baker's  bills ; 

Louisa  looked  the  queen  of  knitters ; 
Jane  happened  to  be  hemming  frills ; 

And  Bell,  by  chance,  was  making  fritters. 

But  all  was  vain ;  and  while  decay 

Came  like  a  tranquil  moonlight  o'er  him, 

And  found  him  gouty  still,  and  gay, 

With  no  fair  nurse  to  bless  or  bore  him  ; 

His  rugged  smile,  and  easy  chair. 


14-i  QUINCE. 

His  dread  of  matrimonial  lectures, 
His  wig,  Ms  stick,  his  powdered  hair. 

Were  themes  for  verv  strange  conjectures. 

Some  sages  thought  the  stars  above 

Had  crazed  him  with  excess  of  knowledge ; 
Some  heard  he  had  been  crossed  in  love, 

Before  he  came  away  from  college — 
Some  darkly  hinted  that  his  Grace 

Did  nothing,  great  or  small,  without  him  ; 
Some  whispered,  with  a  solemn  face, 

That  there  was  something  odd  about  him! 

I  found  him  at  threescore  and  ten, 

A  single  man,  but  bent  quite  double ; 
Sickness  was  coming  on  him  then, 

To  take  him  from  a  world  of  trouble — 
lie  prosed  of  slipping  down  the  hill, 

Discovered  he  grew  older  daily ; 
One  frosty  day  he  made  his  will — 

The  next  he  sent  for  Dr.  Bailey ! 

And  so  he  lived — and  so  he  died : — 

When  last  I  sat  beside  his  pillow, 
He  shook  my  hand,  and  "Ah!"  he  cried, 

"  Penelope  must  wear  the  willow. 
Tell  her  I  hugged  her  rosy  chain 

While  life  was  flickering  in  the  socket ; 
And  say,  that  when  I  call  again, 

I'll  bring  a  license  in  my  pocket. 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL-ROOM.   145 

"  I've  left  my  liouse  and  grounds  to  Fag — 

(I  hope  his  master's  shoes  will  suit  him) ; 
And  I've  bequeathed  to  you  my  nag, 

To  feed  him  for  my  sake — or  shoot  him. 
Tlie  Vicar's  wife  will  take  old  Fox — 

She'll  find  him  an  uncommon  mouser ; 
And  let  her  husband  have  my  box, 

My  Bible,  and  my  Assmanshauser, 

"  Whether  I  ought  to  die  or  not 

My  doctors  cannot  quite  determine  ; 
It's  only  clear  that  I  shall  rot, 

And  be,  like  Priam,  food  for  vermin. 
My  debts  are  paid  ; — but  Nature's  debt 

Almost  escaped  my  recollection ! 
Tom !  we  shall  meet  again ;  and  yet 

I  cannot  leave  you  my  direction!" 


III.— THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL-ROOM. 

Years,  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams 

Had  been  of  being  wise  or  witty ; 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes, 

Or  yawn'd  o'er  this  infernal  Ohitty  ; 
Years,  years  ago,  while  all  my  joys 

Were  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly ; 
Vol.  II.— 10 


14G   THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL-KOOM. 

In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 
I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lilly. 

I  saw  her  at  the  County  Ball: 

There,  when  the  sounds  of  flute  and  fiddle 
Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall. 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle, 
Ifers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Of  all  that  sets  young  hearts  romancing  : 
She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star ; 

Andthen  she  danced — oh,  heaven,  her  dancing! 

Dark  was  her  hair,  her  hand  was  white  ; 

Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender ; 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light ; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender ; 
Ilcr  every  look,  her  every  smile. 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows ; 
I  thought  'twas  Venus  from  her  isle. 

And  wondered  where  she'd  left  her  sparrows. 

She  talked  of  politics  or  prayers — 

Of  Southey's  prose,  or  Wordsworth's  sonnets, 
Of  danglers  or  of  dancing  bears, 

Of  battles,  or  the  last  new  bonnets  ; 
By  candle-light,  at  twelve  o'clock, 

To  me  it  mattered  not  a  tittle. 
If  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke, 

I  might  have  thought  they  murmured  Little, 


THE    BELLE    OF    THE    BALL-EOOM.       liT 

Tlirongh  sunny  May,  through  si;ltry  Juii-, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

I  wrote  them  to  the  Sunday  Journal. 
My  mother  laughed ;  I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling ; 
My  father  frown'd  ;  hut  how  should  gout 

See  any  happiness  in  kneeling? 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  dean. 

Rich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic ; 
She  had  one  brother,  just  thirteen, 

Whose  colour  was  extremely  hectic ; 
Her  grandmother,  for  many  a  year. 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty ; 
Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer, 

And  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county. 

But  titles  and  the  three  per  cents. 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations, 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes  and  rents. 

Oh !  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations  ? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks, 

Sucli  wealth,  such  honours,  Cupid  chooses ; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  stocks. 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  muses. 

She  sketched ;  the  vale,  the  wood,  the  beach. 
Grew  lovelier  from  her  penciFs  shading ; 


148       THE   BELLE    OF   THE    BALL-KOOil. 

She  botanized ;  I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading ; 

She  warbled  Handel ;  it  was  grand — ■ 
She  made  the  Catalina  jealous  ; 

She  touched  the  organ ;  I  could  stand 
For  hours  and  hours  to  blow  the  bellows. 

She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home, 

Well  filled  with  all  an  album's  glories ; 
Paintings  of  butterflies  and  Rome, 

Patterns  for  trimmings,  Persian  stories ; 
Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo, 

Fierce  odes  to  famine  and  to  slaughter  ; 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Leboo, 

And  recipes  of  elder  water. 

And  she  was  flattered,  worshipped,  bored. 

Her  steps  were  watched,  her  dress  v/as  ni)led, 
Her  poodle  dog  was  quite  adored. 

Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted. 
She  laughed,  and  every  heart  was  glad, 

As  if  the  taxes  were  abolished  ; 
She  frowned,  and  every  look  was  sad. 

As  if  the  opera  were  demolislied. 

She  smiled  on  many  just  for  fun — 
I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  it ; 

I  was  the  first,  the  only  one 

Her  licart  had  thought  of  for  a  miiiuix- ; 


THK   BELLE   OF   THE   BALL-KOOM.       149 

I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so, 

In  phrase  which  was  divinely  moulded ; 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand,  and  oh  ! 

How  sweetly  aU  her  notes  were  folded ! 

Our  love  was  like  most  other  loves — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver ; 
A  rosebud  and  a  pair  of  gloves, 

And  "Fly  IN'ot  Yet,"  upon  the  river ; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir. 

Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted, 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair. 

The  usual  vows — and  then  wc  parted. 

We  parted — months  and  years  rolled  by ; 

"We  met  again  four  summers  after; 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh — 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter ; 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell, 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers  ; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room's  belle, 

But  only — Mrs.  Something  Rogers  1 

(1S30.) 


150  MY    PARTNER. 


IV.— MY  PAETNER. 

"There  is,  perhaps,  no  subject  of  more  universal  interest  in 
the  whole  range  of  natural  knowledge,  than  that  of  the  unceas- 
ing fluctuations  which  take  place  in  the  atmosphere  in  which 
we  ure  immersed." — British  Almanac. 

At  Cheltenliam,  where  one  drinks  one's  1111 

Of  folly  and  cold  water, 
I  danced,  last  year,  my  first  quadrille, 

With  old  Sir  Geoifrey's  daughter. 
Her  cheek  with  summer's  rose  might  vie, 

When  summer's  rose  is  newest ; 
Her  eyes  were  blue  as  autumn's  sky. 

When  autumn's  sky  is  bluest ; 
And  well  my  heart  might  deem  her  one 

Of  life's  most  precious  flowers, 
For  half  her  thoughts  were  of  its  sue, 

And  half  were  of  its  showers. 

I  spoke  of  novels : — "  Vivian  Grey" 

Was  positively  charming, 
And  "  Almack's"  infinitely  gay, 

And  "Frankenstein"  alarming; 
I  said  "  De  Vere"  was  chastely  told. 

Thought  well  of  "  Herbert  Lacy," 
Called  Mr.  Banim's  sketches  "bold," 

And  Lady  Morgan's  "  racy  ;" 


t>rY   PARTNER.  151 

I  vowed  that  last  new  thing  of  Hook's 

"Was  vastly  entertaining  ; 
And  Laura  said — "  I  dote  on  books, 

Because  it's  always  raining!" 

[  talked  of  music's  gorgeous  fane, 

I  raved  about  Rossini, 
Hoped  Eonzi  would  come  back  again, 

iVnd  criticised  Pacini ; 
I  wished  the  chorus  singers  dumb, 

The  trumpets  more  pacific, 
And  eulogized  Brocard's  d  plomb, 

And  voted  Paul  "  terrific !" 
What  cared  she  for  Medea's  pride 

Or  Desdemona's  sorrow  ? 
"  Alas  !"  my  beauteous  listener  sighed, 

"  "We  must  have  rain  to-morrow  !" 

I  told  her  tales  of  other  lands; 

Of  ever-boiling  fountains, 
Of  poisonous  lakes,  and  barren  sands, 

"V^ast  forests,  trackless  mountains : 
I  painted  bright  Italian  skies, 

I  lauded  Persian  Roses, 
Coined  similes  for  Spanish  eyes. 

And  jests  for  Indian  noses : 
I  laughed  at  Lisbon's  love  of  mass, 

Vienna's  dread  of  treason  ; 
And  Laura  asked  me  where  the  glass 

Stood  at  Madrid  last  season. 


152  MY   PARTNER. 

I  broaclied  whate'erhad  gone  its  rounds, 

The  week  before,  of  scandal ; 
TVTiat  made  Sir  Luke  lay  down  his  hounds, 

And  Jane  take  up  her  Handel ; 
Why  Julia  walked  upon  the  heath, 

With  the  pale  moon  above  her ; 
Whei-e  Flora  lost  her  false  front  teeth, 

And  Anne  her  falser  lover  ; 
How  Lord,  de  B.  and  Mrs.  L. 

Had  crossed  the  sea  together  ; 
My  shuddering  partner  cried — "  0  Ciel! 

How  could  they — in  such  weather  ?" 

Was  she  a  Blue  ? — I  put  my  trust 

In  strata,  petals,  gases  ; 
A  boudoir  pedant? — I  discussed 

The  toga  and  the  fasces ;  •• 

A  cockney-muse  ? — I  mouthed  a  deal 

Of  folly  from  "  Endymion  ;" 
A  saint  ? — I  praised  the  pious  zeal 

Of  Messrs.  Way  and  Simeon  ; 
A  politician  ? — It  was  vain 

To  quote  the  morning  paper  ; 
The  horrid  phantoms  came  again, 

Eain,  hail,  and  snow,  and  vapor. 

Flat  flattery  was  my  only  chance  : 

I  acted  deep  devotion, 
Found  magic  in  her  every  glance, 


MY  PARTNER.  153 

Grace  in  her  every  motion ; 
I  wasted  all  a  stripling's  lore, 

Prayer,  passion,  folly,  feeling. 
And  wildly  looked  upon  the  floor, 

And  wildly  on  the  ceiling ; 
I  envied  gloves  upon  her  arm. 

And  shawls  upon  her  shoulder  ; 
And  when  my  worship  was  most  warm, 

She  "never  foiand  it  colder." 

I  don't  object  to  wealth  or  land ; 

And  she  will  have  the  giving 
Of  an  extremely  pretty  hand. 

Some  thousands,  and  a  living. 
She  makes  silk  purses,  broiders  stools. 

Sings  sweetly,  dances  finely, 
Paints  screens,  subscribes  to  Sunday  schools, 

And  sits  a  horse  divinely. 
But  to  be  linked  for  life  to  her ! 

The  desperate  man  who  tried  it, 
Might  marry  a  Barometer, 

And  hang  himself  beside  it! 

(1828.) 


15i  PORTE  AIT   OF    A   LADY. 


V,— PORTRAIT   OF   A   LADY. 

IN   THE   EXHIBITION   OF   THE   EOTAL   AOADEMT. 

What  are  you,  Lady  ? — naught  is  here 

To  tell  us  of  your  name  or  story ; 
To  claim  the  gazer's  smile  or  tear, 

To  dub  you  Whig,  or  damn  your  Tory. 
It  is  beyond  a  poet's  skill 

To  form  the  slightest  notion,  whether 
We  e'er  shall  walk  through  one  quadrille, 

Or  look  upon  one  moon  together. 

You're  very  pretty!— all  the  world 

Are  talking  of  your  bright  brow's  splen<lour, 
And  of  your  locks,  so  softly  curled. 

And  of  your  handsj  so  white  and  slender  • 
Some  think  you're  blooming  in  Bengal ; 

Some  say  you're  blowing  in  the  city ; 
Some  know  you're  nobody  at  all ; 

I  only  feel,  you're  very  pretty. 

But  bless  my  heart!  it's  very  wrong  : 
You're  making  all  our  belles  ferocious  ; 

Anne  "never  saw  a  chin  so  long  ;" 

And  Laura  thinks  your  dress  "  atrocious;" 


POKTKAIT   OF    A   LADY.  155 

Aud  Lady  Jane,  who  now  and  then 

Is  taken  for  the  viHage  steeple, 
Is  sure  you  can't  be  four  feet  ten. 

And  "  wonders  at  the  taste  of  people." 

Soon  pass  the  praises  of  a  face  ; 

Swift  fades  the  very  best  vermiliuu ; 
Fame  rides  a  most  prodigious  pace  ; 

Oblivion  follows  on  the  pillion ; 
And  all  who,  in  these  sultry  rooms, 

To-day  have  stared,  and  pushed,  and  fainted, 
"Will  soon  forget  your  pearls  and  plumes. 

As  if  they  never  had  been  painted. 

You'll  be  forgotten — as  old  debts 

By  persons  who  are  used  to  borrow ; 
Forgotten — as  the  sun  that  sets, 

"When  shines  a  new  one  on  the  morrow  ; 
Forgotten — like  the  luscious  peach. 

That  blessed  the  school-boy  last  September ; 
Forgotten — ^like  a  maiden  speech, 

Which  all  men  praise,  but  none  remember. 

Yet,  ere  you  sink  into  the  stream, 

That  whelms  alike  sage,  saint,  and  martyr. 

And  soldier's  sword,  and  minstrel's  theme, 
And  Canning's  wit,  and  Gatton's  charter, 

Here  of  the  fortunes  of  your  youth 
My  fancy  weaves  her  dim  conjectareri, 


156  POETEAIT   OF   A   LADY. 

Which  have,  perhaps,  as  much  of  truth 
As  Passion's  vows,  or  Cobbett's  lectures. 

Was't  in  the  north  or  in  the  south. 

That  summer-breezes  rocked  your  cradle  ? 
And  had  you  in  your  baby  mouth 

A  wooden  or  a  silver  ladle? 
And  was  your  first,  unconscious  sleep, 

By  brownie  banned,  or  blessed  by  fairy  ? 
And  did  you  wake  to  laugh  or  weep  ? 

And  were  you  christened  Maud  or  Mary  ? 

And  was  your  father  called  "your  grace?" 

And  did  he  bet  at  Ascot  races  ? 
And  did  he  chat  at  common-place  ? 

And  did  he  fill  a  score  of  places? 
And  did  your  lady-mother's  charms 

Consist  in  picklings,  broilings,  bastings? 
Or  did  she  prate  about  the  ai-ms 

Her  brave  forefathers  wore  at  Hastings  ? 

Where  were  you  "finished?"  tell  me  where 

"Was  it  at  Chelsea,  or  at  Chiswick  ? 
Had  you  the  ordinary  share 

Of  books  and  backboard,  harp  and  physic  ' 
And  did  they  bid  you  banish  pride. 

And  mind  your  oriental  tinting? 
And  did  you  learn  how  Dido  died, 

And  who  found  out  the  art  of  printing  ? 


POETEATT   OF   A    LADY.  157 

And  are  you  fond  of  lanes  and  brooks, 

A  votary  of  the  sylvan  muses  ? 
Or  do  you  con  the  little  books 

Which  Baron  Brougham  and  Yaiix  diffuses  ? 
Or  do  you  love  to  knit  and  sew, 

The  fashionable  world's  Arachne  ? 
Or  do  you  canter  down  the  Kow, 

Upon  a  very  long-tailed  hackney  ? 

And  do  you  love  your  brother  James  ? 

And  do  you  pet  his  mares  and  setters  ? 
And  have  your  friends  romantic  names? 

And  do  you  write  them  long,  long  letters  ? 
And  are  you — since  the  world  began 

All  women  are — a  little  spiteful  ? 
And  don't  you  dote  on  Malibran  ? 

And  don't  you  think  Tom  Moore  delightful  ? 

I  see  they've  brought  you  flowers  to-day, 

Delicious  food  for  eyes  and  noses ; 
But  carelessly  you  turn  away 

From  all  the  pinks,  and  all  the  roses ; 
Say,  is  that  fond  look  sent  in  search 

Of  one  whose  look  as  fondly  answers  ? 
And  is  he,  fairest,  in  the  Church, 

Or  is  he — ain't  he — in  the  Lancers  ? 

And  is  your  love  a  motley  page 

Of  black  and  white,  half  joy,  half  sorrow  ? 


158  THE  childe's  destiny. 

Are  you  to  wait  till  you're  of  age  ? 

Or  are  you  to  be  his  to-morrow? 
Or  do  they  bid  you,  iu  their  scorn, 

Your  pure  and  sinless  flame  to  smother  ' 
Is  he  so  very  meanly  born  ? 

Or  are  you  married  to  another  ? 

Whate'er  you  are,  at  last,  adieu! 

I  think  it  is  your  bounden  duty 
To  let  the  rhymes  I  coin  for  you, 

Be  prized  by  all  who  prize  your  beauty. 
From  you  I  seek  nor  gold  nor  fame ; 

From  you  I  fear  no  cruel  strictures; 
I  wish  some  girls  that  I  could  name 

Were  half  as  silent  as  their  pictures ! 

(1881.) 


THE  CHILDE'S  DESTINY. 

"And  none  did  love  him — not  his  lemans  dear." — Byron. 

No  mistress  of  the  hidden  skill, 

ISTo  wizard  gaunt  and  grim, 
"Went  up  by  night  to  heath  or  hill 

To  read  the  stars  for  him  ; 
The  merriest  girl  in  ail  the  land 

Of  vine- encircled  France 


THE   CIIILDe's    DESTINY.  159 

Bestowed  wpon  his  brow  and  hand 

Her  philosophic  glance . 
"  I  bind  thee  with  a  spell,"  said  she, 

"I  sign  thee  with  a  sign; 
No  woman's  love  shall  light  on  thee, 

No  woman's  heart  be  thine! 

"And  trust  me,  'tis  not  that  t"hy  cheek 

Is  colourless  and  cold ; 
Nor  that  thine  ere  is  slow  to  speak 

"What  only  eyes  have  told  ; 
For  many  a  cheek  of  paler  white 

Hath  blushed  with  passion's  kiss, 
And  many  an  eye  of  lesser  light 

Hath  caught  its  fire  from  bliss ; 
Yet  while  the  rivers  seek  the  sea. 

And  while  the  young  stars  shiue, 
No  woman's  love  shall  light  on  thee, — 

No  woman's  heart  be  thine ! 

"And  'tis  not  that  thy  spirit,  awed 

By  Beauty's  numbing  spell, 
Shrinks  from  the  force  or  from  the  fraud 

Which  Beauty  loves  so  well ; 
For  thou  hast  learned  to  watch,  and  wake, 

And  swear  by  earth  and  sky  ; 
And  thou  art  very  bold  to  take 

What  we  must  still  deny : 
I  cannot  tell ; — the  charm  was  wrought 


160  THE  childe's  DESTLNT. 

By  other  threads  than  mine ; 
The  lips  are  lightly  begged  or  bought, — 
The  heart  may  not  be  thine ! 

"  Yet  thine  the  brightest  smUes  shall  be 

That  ever  Beauty  wore ; 
And  confidence  from  two  or  three, 

And  compliments  from  more ; 
And  one  shall  give — perchance  hath  given— 

What  only  is  not  love, — 
Friendship, — oh!  such  as  saints  in  Hearen 

Rain  on  us  from  above  : 
If  she  shall  meet  thee  in  the  bower. 

Or  name  thee  in  the  shrine, 
O  wear  the  ring  and  guard  the  flower ! 

Her  heart  may  not  be  thine  ! 

"  Go,  set  thy  boat  before  the  blast, 

Thy  breast  before  the  gun  ; 
The  haven  shall  be  reached  at  last. 

The  battle  shall  be  won : 
Or  muse  upon  thy  country's  laws. 

Or  strike  thy  country's  lute; 
And  patriot  hands  shall  sound  applause. 

And  lovely  lips  be  mute. 
Go,  dig  the  diamond  from  the  wave. 

The  treasure  from  the  mine ; 
Enjoy  the  wreath,  the  gold,  the  grave, — 

No  woman's  heart  is  thine ! 


JOSEPHINE.  161 

"I  charm  thee  from  the  agony 

Which  others  feel  or  feiga ; 
From  anger,  and  from  jealousy, 

From  doubt,  and  from  disdain ; 
I  bid  thee  wear  the  scorn  of  years 

Upon  the  cheek  of  youth, 
And  curl  the  lip  at  Passion's  tears. 

And  shake  the  head  at  truth  : 
Wliile  there  is  bliss  in  revelry, 

Forgetfulness  in  wine. 
Be  thou  from  woman's  love  as  free 

As  woman  is  from  thine !" 

(1S25.) 


JOSEPHINE. 


"We  did  not  meet  in  courtly  hall, 

Where  Birth  and  Beauty  throng, 
Where  Luxury  holds  festival, 

And  wit  awakes  the  song ; 
We  met  where  darker  spirits  meet, 

In  the  home  of  Sin  and  Shame, 
Where  Satan  shows  his  cloven  feet, 

And  hides  his  titled  name ; 
And  she  knew  she  could  not  be,  Love, 

What  once  she  might  have  been, 
But  she  was  kind  to  me.  Love, 

My  pretty  Jooephine. 
Vol.  IL— 11 


162  josEPHmE. 

"We  did  not  part  beneath  tlie  sky, 

As  warmer  lovers  part, 
Where  Night  conceals  the  glistening  eye. 

But  not  the  throbbing  heart ; 
"We  parted  on  the  spot  of  ground 

"Where  we  first  had  laughed  at  love, 
And  ever  the  jests  were  loud  around, 

And  the  lamps  were  bright  above  : 
"  The  heaven  is  very  dark.  Love, 

The  blast  is  very  keen. 
But  merrily  rides  my  bark,  Love — 

Good  night,  my  Josephine!" 

She  did  not  speak  of  ring  or  vow, 

But  filled  the  cup  of  wine, 
And  took  the  roses  from  her  brow 

To  make  a  wreath  for  mine ; 
And  bade  me,  when  the  gale  should  lift 

My  light  skiff  o'er  the  wave, 
To  think  as  little  of  the  gift 

As  of  the  hand  that  gave : 
"  Go  gayly  o'er  the  sea.  Love, 

And  find  your  own  heart's  queen ; 
And  look  not  back  to  me,  Love, 

Your  humble  Josephine!" 

That  garland  breathes  and  blooms  no  more, 

Past  are  those  idle  hours ; 
I  M  ould  not,  could  I  choose,  restore 


JOSEPHINE.  163 

The  fondness  or  the  flowers; 
Yet  o^t  their  withered  witchery 

Revives  its  wonted  thrill, 
Remembered — not  with  Passion's  sigh, 

But,  oil  I  remembered  still ;. 
And  even  from  your  side,  Love, 

And  even  from  this  scene. 
One  look  is  o'er  tlie  tide,  Love, 

One  thought  with  Josephine ! 

Alas !  your  lips  are  rosier. 

Your  eyes  of  softer  blue. 
And  I  have  never  felt  for  her 

As  I  have  felt  for  you ; 
Our  love  was  like  the  bright  snow-flakes, 

Which  melt  before  you  pass — 
Or  the  bubble  on  the  wine,  which  breaks 

Before  you  lip  the  glass. 
You  saw  these  eye-lids  wet,  Love, 

Which  she  bas  never  seen ; 
But  bid  me  not  forget.  Love, 

My  poor  Josepbiae  I 

(1826.) 


164      CHANT   OF   THE   BIIA2EN    HEAD. 


THE  CHANT  OF  THE  BRAZEN  HEAD. 

"Brazen  companion  of  my  solitary  hours!  do  you.  while  I 
recline,  pronounce  a  prologue  to  those  sentiments  of  wisdom 
and  virtue,  which  are  hereafter  to  be  the  oracles  of  statesmen 
and  the  guides  of  philosophers.  Give  me  to-night  a  i>roem  of 
our  essay,  an  opening  of  our  case,  a  division  of  our  subject. 
Speak  I" — {SlaiB  music.  The  Friar  falls  asleep.  The  Head 
chants  as  follows.) — The  Bbazbn  Head. 

"  I  THnsK,  whatever  mortals  crave, 

With  impotent  endeavour, 
A  -wreath — a  rank — a  throne — a  grave — 

The  world  goes  round  forever ; 
I  think  that  life  is  not  too  long, 

And  therefore  I  determine 
That  many  peoi:)le  read  a  song, 

Who  will  not  read  a  sermon. 

"  J  think  you've  looked  through  many  hearts, 

And  mused  on  many  actions. 
And  studied  man's  component  parts, 

And  nature's  compound  fractions ; 
I  think  you've  picked  up  truth  hy  bits 

From  foreigner  and  neighbour, 
I  think  the  world  has  lost  its  wits. 

And  you  have  lost  your  labour. 


CHANT   OF   THE   BEAZEN    HEAD.       165 

"  I  think  the  studies  of  the  wise, 

The  hero's  noisy  quarrel, 
The  majesty  of  woman's  eyes, 

The  poet's  cherished  laurel ; 
And  all  that  makes  us  lean  or  fat, 

And  all  that  charms  or  troubles — 
This  bubble  is  more  bright  than  that. 

But  still  they  all  are  bubbles. 

"I  think  the  thing  you  call  Eenown. 

This  unsubstantial  vapour 
Tor  which  a  soldier  burns  a  town, 

The  sonneteer  a  taper, 
Is  like  the  mist  which,  as  he  flies, 

The  liorseman  leaves  behind  him  ; 
He  cannot  mark  its  wreaths  arise, 

Or,  if  he  does,  they  blind  him. 

"I  think  one  nod  of  Mistress  Chance 

Makes  creditors  of  debtors, 
And  shifts  the  funeral  for  the  dance, 

The  sceptre  for  the  fetters ; 
I  think  that  Fortune's  favoured  guest 

May  live  to  gnaw  the  platters ; 
And  he  that  wears  the  purple  vest 

May  wear  the  rags  and  tatters. 

"I  think  the  Tories  love  to  buy 
'  Your  Lordships '  and  '  Your  Graces,' 


166   CHANT  OF  THE  BKAZEN  HEAD. 

By  loathing  common  honesty, 
And  laudmg  common  places; 

I  think  that  some  are  very  wise, 
And  some  are  very  fnnny, 

And  some  grow  rich  by  telling  lies, 
And  some  by  telling  money. 

"  I  think  the  Whigs  are  wicked  knaves, 

And  very  like  the  Tories, 
"Who  doubt  that  Britain  rules  the  waves, 

And  ask  the  price  of  glories  ; 
I  think  that  many  fret  and  fume 

At  what  their  friends  are  planning, 
And  Mr.  Hume  hates  Mr.  Brougham 

As  much  as  Mr.  Canning. 

"  I  think  that  fr^rs  and  their  hoods, 

Their  doctrines  and  their  maggots, 
Have  lighted  up  too  many  feuds. 

And  far  too  many  fagots ; 
I  think  while  zealots  fast  and  frown. 

And  fight  for  two  or  seven, 
That  there  are  fifty  roads  to  town. 

And  rather  more  to  Heaven. 

"  I  think  that,  thanks  to  Paget's  lance. 
And  thanks  to  Chester's  learning. 

The  hearts  that  burned  for  fame  in  France, 
At  home  are  safe  from  burning ; 


OH  A  NT  OF  THE  BEAZEN  HEAD.   167 

I  think  the  Pope  is  on  his  back, 
And,  though  'tis  fun  to  shake  him, 

I  think  the  Devil  not  so  black 
As  many  people  make  him. 

*'  I  think  that  Love  is  like  a  play 

Where  tears  and  smiles  are  blended, 
Or  like  a  faithless  AprQ  day, 

AVhose  shine  with  shower  is  ended  ; 
Like  Colnbrook  pavement,  rather  rough, 

Like  trade,  exposed  to  losses. 
And  like  a  Highland  plaid,  all  stuff, 

And  very  fuU  of  crosses. 

"  I  think  the  world,  though  dark  it  be, 

Has  aye  one  rapturous  pleasure. 
Concealed  in  life's  monotony. 

For  those  who  seek  the  treasure ; 
One  planet  in  a  starless  night — 

One  blossom  on  a  brier — 
One  friend  not  quite  a  hypocrite — 

One  woman  not  a  liar  ! 

"  I  think  poor  beggars  court  St.  Giles, 
Rich  beggars  court  St.  Stephen ; 

And  death  looks  dov,'n  with  nods  and  smiles, 
And  makes  the  odds  all  even. 

I  think  some  die  upon  the  field, 
And  some  upon  the  billow. 


168      TWENTY-EIGHT   A^D   TWEJJTY-XIXE. 

And  some  are  laid  beneath  a  shield, 
And  some  beneath  a  willow. 

"I  think  that  very  few  have  sighed, 

"When  Fate  at  last  has  found  them, 
Though  bitter  foes  were  by  their  side. 

And  barren  moss  around  them; 
I  think  that  some  have  died  of  drought, 

And  some  have  died  of  drinking ; 
I  think  that  naught  is  worth  a  thought. 

And  I'm  a  fool  for  thinking." 

(1826.) 


TWENTY-EIGHT  AND  TWENTY-NIXE. 

"Kien  n'est  chang6,  mes  amis." — Charles  X. 

I  HEAED  a  sick  man's  dying  sigh, 

And  an  infant's  idle  laughter. 
The  Old  Year  went  with  mourning  by — 

The  New  came  dancing  after ! 
Let  Sorrow  shed  her  lonely  tear, 

Let  Kevelry  hold  her  ladle ; 
Bring  boughs  of  cypress  for  the  bier, 

Fling  roses  on  the  cradle ; 
Mutes  to  wait  on  the  funeral  state ; 

Pages  to  pour  the  wine ; 


TWENTY-EIGHT   AND   TWEXTY-NINE.       169 

A  requiem  for  Twenty-Eight, 
And  a  health  to  Twenty-Nine ! 

Alas  for  human  happiness ! 

Alas  for  human  sorrow  ! 
Our  yesterday  is  nothingness, 

What  else  will  be  our  morrow? 
Still  Beauty  must  be  stealing  hearts, 

And  Knavery  stealing  purses ; 
Still  cooks  must  live  by  making  tarts, 

And  wits  by  making  verses ; 
"While  sages  prate  and  courts  debate, 

The  same  stars  set  and  shine ; 
And  the  world,  as  it  rolled   through  Twenty- 
Eight, 

Must  roll  through  Twenty-jSTine. 

Some  King  will  come,  in  Heaven's  good  time, 

To  the  tomb  his  father  came  to ; 
Some  Thief  will  wade  through  blood  and  crime 

To  a  crown  he  has  no  claim  to ; 
Some  suffering  land  will  rend  in  twain 

The  manacles  that  bound  her. 
And  gather  the  links  of  the  broken  chain 

To  fasten  them  proudly  round  her ; 
The  grand  and  great  will  love  and  hate, 

And  combat  and  combine  ; 
And  much  where  we  were  in  Twenty-Eight, 

We  shall  be  in  Twenty-Nine. 


170      TWENTY-EIGHT    AND   TWENTY-NINE. 

O'Oonnell  will  toil  to  raise  the  Eent, 

And  Kenyon  to  sink  the  Nation ; 
And  Shell  will  abuse  the  Parliament, 

And  Peel  the  Association; 
And  the  thought  of  bayonets  and  swords 

Will  make  ex-chancellors  merry ; 
And  jokes  will  be  cut  in  the  House  of  Lords, 

And  throats  in  the  County  Kerry ; 
And  writers  of  weight  will  speculate 

On  the  Cabinet's  design ; 
And  just  what  it  did  in  Twenty-Eight 

It  will  do  in  Twenty-Nine. 

John  Thomas  Mugg,  on  a  lonely  hill, 

Will  do  a  deed  of  mystery ; 
The  Morning  Chronicle  will  fill 

Five  columns  with  the  history ; 
The  jury  will  be  all  surprise, 

The  prisoner  quite  collected, 
And  Justice  Park  will  wipe  his  eyes, 

And  be  very  much  aifected  ; 
And  folks  will  relate  poor  Corder's  fate 

As  they  hurry  home  to  dine, 
Comparing  the  hangings  of  Twenty -Eight 

With  the  hangings  of  Twenty -Nine. 

And  the  Goddess  of  Love  will  keep  her  smiles, 

And  the  God  of  Cups  his  orgies ; 
And  there'll  be  riots  in  St.  Giles, 


TWENTY-EIGHT   AND   TWENTY-NINE.       IVl 

And  weddings  in  St.  George's; 
And  mendicants  will  sup  like  Kings, 

And  Lords  will  swear  like  lackeys ; 
And  black  eyes  oft  will  lead  to  rings, 

And  rings  will  lead  to  black  eyes ; 
And  pretty  Kate  will  scold  her  mate, 

In  a  dialect  all  divine ; 
Alas!  they  married  in  Twenty-Eight, 

They  will  part  in  Twenty-Nine. 

And  oh!  I  shall  find  how,  day  by  day, 

All  thoughts  and  things  look  older ; 
How  the  laugh  of  Pleasure  grows  less  gay. 

And  the  heart  of  Friendship  colder ; 
But  still  I  shall  be  what  I  have  been. 

Sworn  foe  to  Lady  Reason, 
And  seldom  troubled  with  the  spleen, 

And  fond  of  talking  treason ; 
I  shall  buckle  my  skate,  and  leap  my  gate, 

And  throw  and  write  my  line ; 
And  the  woman  I  worshipped  in  Twenty-Eight 

I  shall  worship  in  Twenty-Nine. 

(Januakt  1,  1829.) 


172   SONG  FOE  FOUETEENTH  FEBEUAEY. 


SONG  FOR  THE  FOURTEENTH  OF  FEB- 
RUARY. 

BY   A   GENEEAL   LOVER. 
"Mille  gravem  telis,  eshausta  pene  pharetrA." 

Apollo  has  peeped  through  the  shutter, 

And  wakened  the  witty  and  fair  ; 
The  boarding-school  belle's  in  a  flutter, 

The  two-penny  post's  in  despair  ; 
The  breath  of  the  morning  is  flinging 

A  magic  on  blossom,  on  spray, 
And  cockneys  and  sparrows  are  singing 

In  chorus  on  Valentine's  Day. 

Away  with  ye,  dreams  of  disaster, 

Away  with  ye,  visions  of  law. 
Of  cases  I  never  shall  master, 

Of  pleadings  I  never  shall  draw ! 
Away  witli  ye,  parchments  and  papers, 

Red  tapes,  unread  volumes,  away! 
It  gives  a  fond  lover  the  vapours 

To  see  you  on  Valentine's  Day. 

I'll  sit  in  my  night-cap,  like  Hayley, 
I'll  sit  with  my  arms  crossed  like  Spain, 

Till  joys,  which  are  vanishing  daily, 
Come  back  in  their  lustre  a<;':iiii  : 


SONG    FOR    FOURTEENTH   FEBEUART.       173 

Oh !  shall  I  look  over  the  waters, 

Or  shall  I  look  over  the  way, 
For  the  brightest  and  best  of  Earth's  daughters, 

To  rhyme  to,  on  Valentine's  Day  ? 

Shall  I  crown  with  my  worship,  for  fame's  sake, 

Some  goddess  whom  Fashion  has  starred, 
Make  puns  on  iDss  Love  and  her  namesake. 

Or  pray  for  a  pas  Avith  Brocard  ? 
Shall  I  flirt,  in  romantic  idea. 

With  Chester's  adorable  clay. 
Or  whisper  in  transport,  "  Si  mea* 

Gum  Vestris''^ — on  Valentine's  Day  ? 

Shall  I  kneel  to  a  Sylvia  or  Celia, 

Whom  no  one  e'er  saw,  or  may  see, 
A  fancy-drawn  Laura  Amelia, 

An  ad  libit.  Anna  Marie  ? 
Shall  I  court  an  initial  with  stars  to  it, 

Go  mad  for  a  G-.  or  a  J., 
Get  Bishop  to  put  a  few  bars  to  it, 

And  print  it  on  Valentine's  Day  ? 

I  think  not  of  Laura  the  witty ; 

For,  oh  !  she  is  married  at  York  ! 
I  sigh  not  for  Rose  of  the  City, 

For,  oh  !  she  is  buried  at  Cork  I 

*  "Si  mea  cnm  VMtrit  Tfiloissent  vota!" — Ovid,  Jfet 


174      SOIfG   FOB    FOURTEENTH   FEBMJAEY. 

A  dele  has  a  braver  and  better 
To  say — what  I  nevei*  could  say  ; 

Louise  cannot  construe  a  letter 
Of  English,  on  Valentine's  Day. 

So  perish  the  leaves  in  the  arbour  I 

The  tree  is  all  bare  in  the  blast ; 
Like  a  wreck  that  is  drifting  to  harbour, 

I  come  to  thee,  Lady,  at  last : 
Where  art  thou,  so  lovely  and  lonely  ? 

Though  idle  the  lute  and  the  lay. 
The  lute  and  the  lay  are  thine  only, 

My  fairest,  on  Valentine's  Day. 

For  thee  I  have  opened  my  Blackstone, 

For  thee  I  have  shut  up  myself; 
Exchanged  my  long  curls  for  a  Caxton, 

And  laid  my  short  whist  on  the  shelf, 
For  thee  I  have  sold  my  old  sherry. 

For  thee  I  have  burned  my  new  play  : 
And  I  grow  philosophical, — very  I 

Except  upon  Valentine's  Day  I 

(Febhuart  14,  1S26.) 


APKir.  FOOLS.  175 


APRIL  FOOLS. 

"passim 

Palantes  error  certo  do  tr.amite  pellit; 

Ille  sinistrorsum,  hie  dextrorsum  abit." — TFor. 

This  clay,  beyond  all  contradiction, 
This  day  is  all  thine  own,  Queen  Fiction ! 
And  thou  art  building  castles  boundless 
Of  groundless  joys,  and  griefs  as  groundless; 
Assuring  beauties  that  the  border 
Of  their  new  dress  is  out  of  order  ; 
And  schoolboys  that  their  shoes  Avant  tying; 
And  babies  that  their  dolls  are  dying. 

Lend  me,  lend  me  some  disguise  ; 

I  will  tell  prodigious  lies  ; 

All  who  care  for  what  I  say 

Shall  be  April  fools  to-day. 

First,  I  relate  how  all  the  nation 
Is  ruined  by  Emancipation  ; 
How  honest  men  are  sadly  thwarted; 
How  beads  and  fagots  are  imported ; 
How  every  parish  church  looks  tliinner; 
How  Peel  has  asked  the  Pope  to  dinner ; 
And  how  the  Duke,  who  fought  the  duel, 
Keeps  good  King  George  on  watcr-gruel. 


176  APEIL   FOOLS. 

Thus  I  waken  doubts  and  fears 
In  the  Commons  and  the  Peers ; 
If  they  care  for  what  I  say, 
They  are  April  fools  to-day. 

Next  I  announce  to  hall  and  hovel 
Lord  Asterisk's  unwritten  novel. 
It's  full  of  wit,  and  full  of  fashion, 
And  full  of  taste,  and  full  of  passion  ; 
It  tells  some  very  curious  histories, 
Elucidates  some  charming  mysteries, 
And  mingles  sketches  of  society 
With  precepts  of  the  soundest  piety. 

Thus  I  babbled  to  the  host 

Who  adore  the  "  Morning  Post :" 

If  they  care  for  what  I  say, 

They  are  April  fools  to-day. 

Then  to  the  artist  of  my  raiment 
I  hint  his  bankers  have  stopped  payment ; 
And  just  suggest  to  Lady  Locket 
That  somebody  has  picked  her  pocket ; 
And  scare  Sir  Thomas  from  the  city 
By  murmuring,  in  a  tone  of  pity. 
That  I  am  sure  I  saw  my  Lady 
Drive  through  the  Park  with  Captain  Grady. 

Off  my  troubled  victims  go, 

Very  pale  and  very  low ; 

If  they  care  for  what  I  say, 

They  are  April  fools  to-day. 


APEIL    FOOLS.  177 

I've  sent  the  learned  Doctor  Trepan 
To  feel  Sir  Hubert's  broken  kneepan ; 
'Twill  rout  the  doctor's  seven  senses 
To  find  Sir  Hubert  charging  fences  ! 
I've  sent  a  sallow  parchment  scraper 
To  put  Miss  Trim's  last  will  on  paper ; 
He'll  see  her,  silent  as  a  mummy, 
At  whist  with  her  two  maids  and  dummj-. 

Man  of  brief,  and  man  of  pill, 

They  will  take  it  very  ill ; 

If  they  care  for  what  I  say, 

They  are  April  fools  to-day, 

And  then  to  lier,  whose  smile  shed  light  on 
My  weary  lot  last  year  at  Brighton, 
I  talk  of  happiness  and  marriage, 
St.  George's,  and  a  travelling  carriage. 
I  trifle  with  my  rosy  fetters, 
I  rave  about  her  witching  letters. 
And  swear  my  heart  shall  do  no  treason 
Before  the  closing  of  the  season. 

Thus  I  wliisper  in  the  ear 

Of  Louisa  Windermere ; 

If  she  cares  for  what  I  say. 

She's  an  April  fool  to-day. 

And  to  the  world  I  publish  gayly 
That  all  things  are  improving  daily ; 
That  suns  grow  w^armer,  streamlets  clearer. 

Vol.  II.— 12 


178  APEIL   FOOLS. 

And  faith  more  warm,  aoid  love  sincerer ; 
That  children  grow  extremely  clever; 
That  sin  is  seldom  known,  or  never ; 
That  gas,  and  steam,  and  education, 
Are  killing  sorrow  and  starvation  ! 

Pleasant  visions, — but,  alas ! 

How  those  pleasant  visions  pass ! 

If  you  care  for  what  I  say. 

You're  an  April  fool  to-day. 

Last,  to  myself,  when  night  comes  round  mo. 
And  the  soft  chain  of  thought  has  bound  me, 
I  whisper,  "  Sir,  your  eyes  are  killing  ; 
You  owe  no  mortal  man  a  shilling ; 
You  never  cringe  for  stai'  or  garter. 
You're  much  too  wise  to  be  a  martyr ; 
And  since  you  must  be  food  for  vermin, 
You  don't  feel  much  desire  for  ermine!" 

"Wisdom  is  a  mine,  no  doubt. 

If  one  can  but  find  it  out ; 

But,  whate'er  I  think  or  say, 

I'm  an  April  fool  to-day. 

(Apeil  1, 1829.) 


GOOD-NIGHT   TO   THE   SEASON.         179 


GOOD-NIGHT  TO  THE  SEASON. 

"So  runs  the  world  away." — Hamlet. 

Good-night  to  the  Season !  'tis  over  I 

Gay  dwellings  no  longer  are  gay; 
The  courtier,  the  gambler,  the  lover, 

Are  scattered  like  swallows  away  ; 
There's  nobody  left  to  invite  one, 

Except  my  good  uncle  and  spouse ; 
My  mistress  is  bathing  at  Brighton, 

My  patron  is  sailing  at  Cowes ; 
For  want  of  a  better  employment, 

Till  Ponto  and  Don  can  get  out, 
I'll  cultivate  rural  enjoyment. 

And  angle  immensely  for  trout. 

Good-night  to  the  Season !  the  lobbies, 

Their  changes,  and  rumours  of  change. 
Which  startled  the  rustic  Sh-  Bobbies, 

And  made  all  the  Bishops  look  strange  ; 
The  breaches,  and  battles,  and  blunders. 

Performed  by  the  Commons  and  Peers  ; 
The  Marquis's  eloquent  thunders, 

The  Baronet's  eloquent  ears ; 


180      good-:j^ight  to  the  season 

Denonncings  of  Papists  and  treasons, 
Of  foreign  dominion,  and  oats  ; 

Misrepresentations  of  reasons. 
And  misunderstandings  of  notes. 

Good-night  to  the  Season!  the  building's 

Enough  to  make  Inigo  siclc ; 
Tlie  paintings,  and  plasterings,  and  gildings 

Of  stucco,  and  marble,  and  brick  ; 
The  orders  deliciously  blended, 

From  love  of  effect,  into  one ; 
The  club-houses  only  intended, 

The  palaces  only  begun  ; 
The  hell,  where  the  tiend  in  his  glory 

Sits  staring  at  putty  and  stones, 
And  scrambles  from  story  to  story, 

To  rattle  at  midnight  his  bones. 

Good-night  to  the  Season !  the  dances, 

The  fillings  of  hot  little  rooms, 
The  glancings  of  rapturous  glances. 

The  fancyings  of  fancy  costumes ; 
The  pleasures  which  fashion  makes  duties 

The  praisings  of  fiddles  and  flutes, 
The  luxury  of  looking  at  beauties, 

The  tedium  of  talking  to  mutes ; 
The  female  diplomatists,  planners 

Of  matches  for  Laura  and  Jane, 
The  ice  of  her  Ladyship's  manners. 

The  ice  of  his  Lordship's  champagne. 


GOOD-NIGHT   TO   THE    SEASON.         181 

Good-night  to  the  Season !  the  rages 

Led  off  by  the  chiefs  of  the  throng, 
The  Lady  Matilda's  new  pages, 

The  Lady  Eliza's  new  song  ; 
Miss  Fennel's  macaw,  which  at  Boodle's 

"Was  held  to  have  something  to  say ; 
Mrs.  Splenetic's  musical  poodles. 

Which  bark  "Batti— Batti!"  all  day; 
The  pony  Sir  Araby  sported. 

As  hot  and  as  black  as  a  coal, 
And  the  lion  his  mother  imported, 

In  bearskins  and  grease,  from  the  Pole. 

Good-night  to  the  Season  !  the  Toso, 

So  very  majestic  and  tall; 
Miss  Ayton,  whose  singing  was  so-so. 

And  Pasta,  divinest  of  all ; 
The  labour  in  vain  of  the  ballet. 

So  sadly  deficient  in  stars  ; 
The  foreigners  thronging  the  Alley, 

Exhaling  the  breath  of  cigars ; 
The  loge^  where  some  heiress,  how  killing ! — 

Environed  with  exquisites,  sits, 
The  lovely  one  out  of  her  drilling. 

The  silly  ones  out  of  their  wits. 

Good-night  to  the  Season !  the  splendour 

That  beamed  in  the  Spanish  bazaar. 
Where  I  purchased — ^my  heart  was  so  tender — 


162         GOOD-NIGHT   TO   THE   SEASON. 

A  card-case, — a  pasteboard  guitar, — 
A  bottle  of  perfume, — a  girdle, — 

A  lithographed  Eiego,  full-grown, 
Whom  bigotry  drew  on  a  hurdle, 

That  artists  might  draw  him  on  stone,  • 
A  small  panorama  of  Seville, — 

A  trap  for  demolishing  tlies, — 
A  caricature  of  the  Devil, — 

xind  a  look  from  Miss  Sheridan's  eyes. 

Good-night  to  the  Season !  the  flowers 

Of  the  grand  horticultural  f^te, 
When  boudoirs  were  quitted  for  bowers, 

And  the  fashion  was,  not  to  be  late ; 
When  all  who  had  money  and  leisure 

Grew  rural  o'er  ices  and  Avines, 
All  pleasantly  toiling  for  pleasure, 

All  hungrily  pining  for  pines, 
And  making  of  beautiful  speeches. 

And  marring  of  beautiful  shows, 
And  feeding  on  delicate  peaches. 

And  treading  on  delicate  toes. 

Good-night  to  the  Season  1  another 
Will  come  with  its  trifles  and  toys, 

And  hurry  away,  like  its  brother, 
In  sunshine,  and  odour,  and  noise. 

Will  it  come  with  a  rose,  or  a  brier  ? 
Will  it  come  with  a  blessing,  or  cr.rso? 


AEKIVALS   AT   A   WATEKIi;rG -PLACE.       183 

Will  its  bonnets  be  lower,  or  bigber? 

AVill  its  morals  bo  better,  or  worse? 
AVill  it  liud  me  grown  thiimei-,  or  lutter, 

Or  fonder  of  wrong  or  of  rigbt. 
Or  married,  or  buried? — no  matter, — 

Good-nigbt  to  tbe  Season! — Good-nigbt! 

(August,  1S2-.) 


ARRIVALS  AT  A   WATERING-PLACE. 

I  PLAT  a  spade : — such  strange  new  faces 

Are  flocking  in  from  near  and  far ; 
Such  frights— Miss  Dobbs  holds  all  the  aces,— 

One  can't  imagine  who  they  are ! 
The  lodgings  at  enormous  prices, 

New  Donkeys,  and  another  fly ; 
And  Aladame  Bonbon  out  of  ices. 

Although  we're  scarcely  in  July : 
We're  quite  as  sociable  as  any. 

But  one  old  horse  can  hardly  crawl ; 
And  really,  where  there  are  so  many, 

We  can't  tell  where  we  ought  to  caU. 

Pray,  who  has  seen  the  odd  old  fellow 

Who  took  the  Doctor's  house  labt  week? — 


184:      AERIVALS    AT    A   WATEKING-PLACE. 

A  pretty  chariot, — ^livery  yellow — 

Almost  as  yellow  as  liis  clieek : 
A  widower,  sixty -five,  and  surly — 

And  stiffer  than  a  poplar-tree ; 
Drinks  rum  and  water,  gets  up  early 

To  dip  his  carcass  in  the  sea ; 
He's  always  in  a  monstrous  hurry, 

And  always  talking  of  Bengal ; 
They  say  his  cook  makes  noble  curry  ;— 

I  think,  Louisa,  we  should  call. 

And  so  Miss  Jones,  the  Mantua-maker, 

Has  let  her  cottage  on  the  hill! — 
The  drollest  man,  a  sugar -baker, 

Last  year  imported  from  the  till ; 
Prates  of  his  "orses"  and  his  "oney," 

Is  quite  in  love  with  fields  and  farms ; 
A  horrid  YandaL, — but  his  money 

Will  buy  a  glorious  coat-of-arms ; 
Old  Clyster  makes  him  take  the  waters ; 

Some  say  he  means  to  give  a  ball ; 
And,  after  all,  with  thirteen  daughters, 

I  think,  Sir  Thomas,  you  might  call. 

That  poor  young  man! — I'm  sure  and  certain 

Despair  is  making  up  his  shroud ; 
He  walks  all  night  beneath  the  curtain 

Of  the  dim  sky  and  murky  cloud : 
Draws  landscapes, throws  such  mournful  glances ! 


ARKIYALS   AT   A   WATEKING-rLACE.       185 

"Writes  verses, — ^has  sucli  splendid  eyes;— 
An  ugly  name, — but  Laura  fancies 

He's  some  great  person  in  disguise ! — 
And  since  his  dress  is  all  the  fashion, 

And  since  he's  very  dark  and  tall, 
I  think  that,  out  of  pure  compassion, 

I'll  get  papa  to  go  and  call. 

So  Lord  St.  Ives  is  occupying 

The  whole  of  Mr.  Ford's  Hotel ; 
Last  Saturday  his  man  was  trying 

A  little  nag  I  want  to  sell. 
He  brought  a  lady  in  the  carriage ; 

Blue  eyes, — eighteen, — or  thereabouts ; — 
Of  course,  you  know,  we  liope  it's  marriage  ! 

But  yet  ih.Qfemme  de  chamlre  doubts. 
She  looked  so  pensive  when  we  met  her  ; 

Poor  thing  !  and  such  a  charming  shawl  !— 
"Well  I  till  we  understand  it  better, 

It's  quite  impossible  to  call. 

Old  Mr.  Fund,  the  Loudon  banker. 

Arrived  to-day  at  Premium  Court ; 
I  would  not,  for  the  world,  cast  anchor 

In  such  a  horrid,  dangerous  port ; 
Such  dast  and  rubbish,  lath  and  plaster 

(Contractors  play  the  meanest  tricks) — 
The  roof's  as  crazy  as  its  raastei", 

And  he  was  born  in  fifty-six : 


186      AKKIVALS   AT   A   WATEEmG-PLACE. 

Stairs  creaking, — cracks  in  every  landing, — 

The  colonnade  is  sure  to  fall ; 
We  shan't  find  post  or  pillar  standing, 

Unless  we  make  great  haste  to  call. 

"Who  was  that  sweetest  of  sweet  creatures. 

Last  Sunday,  in  the  Sector's  seat  ? 
The  finest  shape, — the  loveliest  feature?, — 

I  never  saw  such  tiny  feet. 
My  brother  (this  is  quite  between  us), 

Poor  Arthur, — 'twas  a  sad  aftair ! 
Love  at  first  sight, — she's  quite  a  Venus, — 

But  then  she's  poorer  far  than  fair  : 
And  so  my  father  and  my  mother 

Agreed  it  would  not  do  at  all ; 
And  so, — I'm  sorry  for  my  brother  ! — 

It's  settled  that  we're  not  to  call. 

And  there's  an  Author,  full  of  knowledge  ; 

And  there's  a  Captain  on  half  pay  ; 
And  there's  a  Baronet  from  College, 

"Who  keeps  a  boy,  and  rides  a  bay  ; 
And  sweet  Sir  Marcus,  from  the  Shaimon, 

Fine  specimen  of  brogue  and  bone  ; 
And  Doctor  CaUpee,  the  Oanou, 

Who  weighs,  I  fancy,  twenty  stone  ; 
A  maiden  lady  is  adorning 

The  faded  front  of  Lily  Hall  ;— 
Upon  my  word,  the  first  fine  morning 

We'll  make  a  round,  my  dear,  and  call. 


THE   FANCY    BALL.  187 

Alas!  disturb  not,  maid  and  matron, 

The  swallow  iu  my  liurablo  thatch  ; 
Your  son  may  find  a  better  patron, 

Your  niece  may  meet  a  richer  match  : 
I  can't  afford  to  give  a  dinner, — 

I  never  was  on  Almack's  list ; 
And  since  I  seldom  rise  a  winner, 

I  never  like  to  play  at  whist : 
Unknown  to  me  the  stocks  are  falling  ; 

Unwatched  by  me  the  glass  may  fall ; 
Let  all  the  world  pursue  its  calling, — 

I'm  not  at  home  if  people  call. 

(1829.) 


THE   FANCY   BALL. 

•'  A  visor  for  a  visor  1  wjiat  care  1 
What  curious  eye  doth  quote  deformities  ?'' 

"  You  used  to  talk,"  said  Miss  Mac  Call, 

"  Of  flowers,  and  flames,  and  Cupid  ; 
But  now  you  never  talk  at  all ; 

You're  getting  vastly  stupid. 
You'd  better  burn  your  Blackstone,  Sir, 

You  never  will  get  through  it ; 
There's  a  Fancy  Ball  at  Winchester, 

l>o  let  18  take  you  to  it." 


188  THE    FANCY   BALL. 

I  made  that  night  a  solemn  vow, 

To  startle  all  beholders  ; 
I  wore  white  muslin  on  my  brow, 

Green  velvet  on  my  shoulders  ; 
My  trousers  were  supremely  wide, 

I  learned  to  swear  "  by  Allah  !" 
I  stuck  a  poniard  by  my  side, 

And  called  myself  "  Abdallah  !" 

Oh  !  a  Fancy  Ball's  a  strange  aftair, 

Made  up  of  silks  and  leathers, 
Light  heads,  light  heels,  false  hearts,  false  hair^ 

Pins,  paint,  and  ostrich-feathers  ; 
The  dullest  Duke  in  all  the  town 

To-day  may  shine  a  droll  one  ; 
And  rakes,  who  have  not  half  a  crown, 

Look  royal  in  a  whole  one. 

Go,  call  the  lawyer  from  his  pleas. 

The  school-boy  from  his  Latin  ; 
Be  stoics  here  in  ecstasies. 

And  savages  in  satin  ; 
Let  young  and  old  forego — forget 

Their  labour  and  their  sorrow, 
And  none — except  the  Cabinet — 

Take  counsel  for  the  morrow. 

Begone,  dull  care  !     This  life  of  ours 
Is  very  dark  and  chilly  ; 


THE   FAJSrCY    BALL.  J  89 

"We'll  sleep  through  all  its  serious  hours, 

And  laugh  through  all  its  silly. 
Be  mine  such  motley  scene  as  this, 

Where,  by  established  usance, 
Miss  Gravity  is  quite  amiss, 

And  Madam  Sense  a  nuisance  ! 

Hail,  blest  Confusion  !  here  are  met 

All  tongues,  and  times,  and  faces  ; 
The  Lancers  flirt  with  Jnliet, 

The  Brahmin  talks  of  races  ; 
And  Where's  your  genius,  bright  Corinne? 

And  where  your  brogue,  Sir  Lucius  ? 
And,  Chinca  Ti,  you  have  not  seen 

One  chapter  of  Confucius. 

Lo  !  dandies  from  Kamtschatka  flirt 

"With  beauties  from  the  "Wrekin ; 
And  belles  from  Berne  look  very  pert 

On  Mandarins  from  Pekin  ; 
The  Cardinal  is  here  from  Rome, 

The  Commandant  from  Seville, 
And  Hamlet's  father  fi-om  the  tomb. 

And  Fanstus  from  the  Devil. 

O  sweet  Anne  Page !— those  dancing  eyes 

Have  peril  in  their  splendour  ! 
"  O  sweet  Anne  Page  !"— so  Slender  sighs. 

And  what  am  I,  but  slender  ? 
Alas  !  when  next  your  spells  engage 


190  'IHE   FAKCT    BALL. 

So  fond  and  starved  a  sinner, 
My  pretty  Page,  be  Shakspeave's  Page, 
And  ask  the  fool  to  dinner  1 

"What  mean  those  laughing  2Tnns,  I  pray. 

What  mean  they,  J^un  or  Fairy  ? 
I  guess  they  told  no  beads  to-day. 

And  sang  no  Ave  Mary  ; 
From  Mass  and  Matins,  Priest  and  Pix, 

Barred  door,  and  Avindow  grated, 
I  wish  all  pretty  Catholics 

Were  thus  emancipated. 

Four  Seasons  come  to  dance  quadrilles 

With  four  well- seasoned  sailors  ; 
And  Ealeigh  talks  of  railroad  bills 

With  Timon,  prince  of  railers  ; 
I  find  Sir  Charles,  of  Aubyn  Park, 

Equipped  for  a  walk  to  Mecca  ; 
And  I  run  away  from  Joan  of  Are, 

To  romp  with  sad  Rebecca. 

Fair  Cleopatra's  very  plain, 

Puck  halts,  and  Ariel  swaggers ; 
And  CaBsar's  murdered  o'er  again. 

Though  not  by  Eoman  daggers ; 
Great  Charlemagne  is  four  feet  high, 

Sad  staff  has  Bacon  spoken. 
Queen  Mary's  waist  is  all  awry. 

And  Psvclic's  nosu  is  broken. 


THE   FANCY   BALL.  191 

Our  happiest  briilc, — how  very  odd  I — 

Is  the  mourning  Isnbelhi ; 
And  the  heaviest  foot  that  ever  trod 

Is  the  foot  of  Cinderella  ; 
Here  sad  Calista  laughs  outright, 

There  Yorick  looks  most  grave,  Sir, 
And  a  Templar  waves  the  cross  to-night, 

Who  never  crossed  the  wave.  Sir. 

And  what  a  Babel  is  the  talk ! 

"  The  Giraffe  "— "  plays  the  fiddle  "— 
"  Macadam's  roads  " — "  I  hate  this  chalk  " — 

"  Sweet  girl !" — "  a  charming  riddle  " — 
"I'm  nearly  drunk  with  " — "Epsom  salts" — 

"  Yes,  separate  beds  " — "  such  cronies!'' — 
"Good  Heaven!    who   taught   that   man   to 
waltz?" 

"  A  pair  of  Shetland  ponies." 

"  Lord  Nugent" — "  an  enchanting  shape "-- 

"  Will  move  for  " — "  Maraschino  ;" — 
"  Pray,  Julia,  how's  your  mother's  ape  ?" — 

"  He  died  at  Navarino  !" — 
"  The  gout,  by  Jove,  is  "— "  apple  pie  ;" — 

"  Don  Miguel  "— "  Tom  the  Tinker  ;"— 
"  His  Lordship's  pedigree's  as  high 

As"— "Whipcord,  dam  by  Clinker." 

"Love's  shafts  are   weak'" — "my  chestnut 
kicks  ^ — 


192  THE   FANCY    BALL, 

"  Heart-broken  " — "  broke  the  traces;" — 
"  What  say  you  now  of  politics  ?" — ■ 

"  Change  sides,  and  to  your  places !" — 
"  A  five-barred  gate  "— "  a  precious  pearl  "— 

"  Grave  things  may  all  be  punned  on  !" — 
"The  Whigs,  thank  Heaven,  are"— "out  of 
curl"— 

"  Her  age  is  " — "four  by  London  !" 

Tlius  run  the  giddy  hours  away, 

Till  morning's  light  is  beaming. 
And  we  must  go  to  dream  by  day 

All  we  to-night  are  dreaming  ; 
To  smile  and  sigh,  to  love  and  change, 

Oh  !  in  our  heart's  recesses. 
We  dress  in  fancies  quite  as  strange 

As  these,  our  fancy-dresses. 


A   LETTER   OF   ADVICE.  193 


A  LETTER  OF  ADVICE. 

FROM    MISS    MEDOKA     TREYILTAN,    AT     PADTIA,    TO 
MISS   AEAMINTA   VAVASOUR,   IN   LONDON. 

"Eiifln  Monsienr,  nn  homme  aimable; 

Viiil^  pourquoi  je  no  gaui-ais  raimer."— j^orift^'. 

You  tell  me  yon're  promised  a  lover, 

My  own  Araminta,  next  week ; 
Why  cannot  ray  fancy  discover 

The  hue  of  his  coat,  and  his  cheek  ? 
Alas !  if  he  look  like  another, 

A  vicar,  a  banker,  a  bean, 
Be  deaf  to  yonr  father  and  mother, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "ISTo!" 

Miss  Lane,  at  her  Temple  of  Fashion, 

Taught  US  both  how  to  sing  and  to  speak, 
And  we  loved  one  another  with  passion 

Before  we  had  been  there  a  week ; 
You  gave  me  a  ring  for  a  token, 

I  wear  it  wherever  I  go ; 
I  gave  you  a  chain — is  it  broken  ? 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No!'' 

Oh !  think  of  our  favourite  cottage. 
And  think  of  our  dear  Lalla  Rookh ; 
Vol.  XL- -18 


194:  A   LETTER   OF   ADVICE. 

How  we  shared  with  the  milkmaids  their  pot- 
tage, 

And  drank  of  the  stream  from  the  brook ; 
How  fondly  our  loving  lips  faltered^ 

"  "What  farther  can  grandeur  bestow?" 
My  heart  is  the  same — is  yours  altered? 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "No!" 

Eemember  the  thrilling  romances 

TVe  read  on  the  bank  in  the  glen ; 
Eemember  the  suitors  our  fancies 

"Would  picture  for  both  of  us  then  ; 
They  wore  the  red  cross  on  their  shoulder, 

They  had  vanquished  and  pardoned  their  foe- 
Sweet  friend,  are  you  wiser  or  colder  ? 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "No!" 

You  know,  when  Lord  Rigmarole's  carriage 

Drove  off  with  your  cousin  Justine, 
You  wept,  dearest  girl,  at  the  marriage, 

And  whispered,  "How  base  she  has  been!'' 
Y^'ou  said  you  were  sure  it  would  kill  you 

If  ever  your  husband  looked  so ; 
And  you  will  not  apostatize,  will  you  ? 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "No!" 

"When  I  heard  I  was  going  abroad.  Love, 

I  thought  I  was  going  to  die ; 
We  walked  arm-in-arm  to  the  road.  Love, 


A    LETTI-ni   OF    ADVICE.  105 

Wo  looked  arin-in-arm  to  the  sky; 
And  T  said,  "When  a  foreign  postilion 

lias  hurried  me  off  to  the  Po, 
Forget  not  Medora  Trevilian;" — 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "No!" 

\Ve  parted!  but  symjiathy's  fetters 

Reach  far  over  valley  and  hill ; 
I  muse  o'er  your  exquisite  letters, 

And  feel  that  your  heart  is  mine  still. 
And  he  who  would  share  it  with  me,  Love, 

The  richest  of  treasures  below, 
If  he's  not  what  Orlando  should  be.  Love, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "No!" 

If  he  wears  a  top  boot  in  his  wooing. 

If  he  comes  to  you  riding  a  cob. 
If  he  talks  of  his  baking  or  brewing. 

If  he  puts  up  his  feet  on  the  hob. 
If  he  ever  drinks  port  after  dinner. 

If  his  brow  or  his  breeding  is  low, 
If  he  calls  himself  "Thompson"  or  "Skinner," 

My  dear  Araminta,  say  "No!" 

If  he  studies  the  news  in  the  papers, 

AVliile  you  are  preparing  the  tea. 
If  he  talks  of  the  damps  or  the  vapours, 

While  moonlight  lies  soft  on  the  sea, 
[f  lie's  sleepy  while  you  are  capricious. 


lOG  A    LETTER    OF    ADVICE. 

If  lie  lias  not  a  musical  "Oh!" 
If  he  does  not  call  Werther  delicious, 
My  own  Araminta,  say  "No!" 

If  he  ever  sets  foot  in  the  city,  '. 

Among  the  stockbrokers  and  Jews, 
If  he  has  not  a  heart  full  of  pity. 

If  he  don't  stand  six  feet  in  his  shoes, 
If  his  lips  are  not  redder  than  roses, 

If  his  hands  are  not  whiter  than  snow, 
If  he  has  not  the  model  of  noses. 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  !" 

If  he  speaks  of  a  tax  or  a  duty, 

If  he  does  not  look  grand  on  his  knees. 
If  he's  blind  to  a  landscape  of  beauty. 

Hills,  valleys,  rocks,  waters,  and  trees, 
If  he  dotes  not  on  desolate  towers. 

If  he  likes  not  to  hear  the  blast  blow. 
If  he  knows  not  the  language  of  flowers, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "No!" 

He  must  walk  like  a  god  of  old  story. 

Come  down  from  the  home  of  his  rest ; 
He  must  smile  like  the  sun  in  his  glory, 

On  the  buds  he  loves  ever  the  best ; 
And,  oh !  from  its  ivory  portal. 

Like  music  his  soft  speech  must  flow  !— 
If  he  speak,  smile,  or  walk  like  a  mortal, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "No!" 


THE   TALENTED   MAN.  107 

Don't  listen  to  tales  of  his  bounty, 

Don't  hear  what  they  say  of  his  birth, 
Don't  look  at  his  seat  in  the  county. 

Don't  calculate  what  he  is  worth ; 
But  give  him  a  theme  to  write  verse  on, 

And  see  if  he  turns  out  his  toe ; — 
If  he's  only  an  excellent  person. 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "No  !" 

(182S.) 


THE  TALENTED  MAN. 

A   LETTER   FEOM   A    LADY    IN    LONDOX   TO    A    LAD\' 
AT   LAUSAXXE. 

Deab  Alice!  you'll  laugh  when  you  know  it, — 

Last  week,  at  the  Duchess's  ball, 
I  danced  with  the  clever  new  poet, — 

You've  heard  of  him,— Tully  St.  Paul. 
Miss  Jonquil  was  perfectly  frantic; 

I  wish  you  had  seen  Lady  Anue! 
It  really  was  very  romantic, 

He  is  such  a  talented  man ! 

He  came  up  from  Brazen  Nose  College, 
.Just  caught,  as  they  call  it,  this  sjjring ; 

And  his  head,  love,  is  stufted  full  of  knowledge 
Of  every  conceivable  thing. 


198  THE   TALENTED   MAN. 

Of  science  and  logic  lie  chatters, 

As  fine  and  as  fast  as  he  can ; 
Though  I  am  no  judge  of  sucli  matters, 

I'm  sure  he's  a  talented  man. 

His  stories  and  jests  are  delightful; — 

Not  stories  or  jests,  dear,  for  you ; 
The  jests  are  exceedingly  spiteful, 

The  stories  not  always  qvite  true. 
Perhaps  to  he  kind  and  veracious 

May  do  pretty  well  at  Lausanne ; 
But  it  never  would  answer, — good  gracious  ! 

Chez  nous — in  a  talented  man. 

He  sneers, — how  my  Alice  would  scold  him  ! 

At  the  hliss  of  a  sigh  or  a  tear ; 
He  laughed — only  think! — when  I  told  him 

How  we  cried  o'er  Trevelyan  last  year ; 
I  vow  I  was  quite  in  a  passion; 

I  broke  all  the  sticks  of  my  fan ; 
But  sentiment's  quite  out  of  fashion. 

It  seems,  in  a  talented  man. 

Lady  Bah,  who  is  terribly  moral, 

Has  told  me  that  Tully  is  vain, 
And  apt — which  is  silly — to  quarrel. 

And  fond — which  is  sad — of  champagne. 
I  listened,  and  doubted,  dear  Alice, 

For  I  saw,  when  my  lady  began. 


THE   TALENTED    MAN.  199 

[t  was  only  the  Dowager's  malice; — 
She  does  hate  a  talented  man ! 

He's  hideous,  I  own  it.     But  fame,  love, 

Is  all  that  these  eyes  can  adore ; 
He's  lame, — but  Lord  Byron  was  lame,  love. 

And  dumpy, — but  so  is  Tom  Moore. 
Then  his  voice, — such  a  voice  !  my  sweet  crea- 
ture. 

It's  like  your  Aunt  Lucy's  toucan : 
But  oh !  what's  a  tone  or  a  feature, 

When  once  one's  a  talented  man  ? 

My  mother,  you  know,  all  the  season, 

Has  talked  of  Sir  Geoifrey's  estate ; 
And  truly,  to  do  the  fool  reason, 

He  has  been  less  horrid  of  late. 
But  to-day,  when  we  drive  in  the  carriage, 

I'll  tell  her  to  lay  down  her  plan; — 
If  ever  I  venture  on  marriage. 

It  must  be  a  talented  man! 

P.  S.— I  have  found,  on  reflection, 

One  fault  in  my  friend, — entre  nous; 
Without  it,  he'd  just  be  perfection; — 

Poor  fellow,  he  has  not  a  sou  ! 
And  80,  when  he  comes  in  September, 

To  shoot  with  my  uncle.  Sir  Dan, 
I've  promised  mamma  to  remember 

He's  only  a  talented  man ! 

(1S31.) 


200  OUR   BALL. 


LETTERS   FROM  TEIGNMOUTH. 
I._OUR  BALL. 

"  Comment  1  c'est  lui?  que  je  le  regarde  encore  I  C'est  que 
vraiment  11  est.  Lien  chang6;  n'est  ce  pas,  mon  papa?"— Zeji 
.Premiers  Amours. 

You'll  come  to  our  ball ; — since  we  parted 

I've  thought  of  you  more  than  I'll  say ; 
Indeed,  I  was  half  broken-hearted 

For  a  week,  when  they  took  you  away. 
Fond  fancy  brought  back  to  my  slumbers 

Our  walks  on  the  Ness  and  the  Den, 
And  echoed  the  musical  numbers 

Which  you  used  to  sing  to  me  then. 
I  know  the  romance,  since  it's  over, 

'Twere  idle,  or  worse,  to  recall ; — 
I  know  you're  a  terrible  rover ; 

But,  Clarence,  you'll  come  to  our  Ball! 

It's  only  a  year  since,  at  College,     • 
You  put  on  your  cap  and  your  gown ; 

But,  Clarence,  you're  grown  out  of  knowledge, 
And  changed  from  the  spur  to  the  crown ; 

The  voice  that  was  best  when  it  faltered, 
Is  fuller  and  firmer  in  tone  : 


OUR   BALL.  201 

Aud  the  smile  that  should  never  have  altered, — 
Dear  Clarence, — it  is  not  your  own  ; 

Your  cravat  was  badly  selected. 
Your  coat  don't  become  you  at  all ; 

And  why  is  your  hair  so  ne<ilected  ? 
You  must  have  it  curled  for  our  Ball. 

I've  often  been  out  upon  Haldoa 

To  look  for  a  covey  with  Pup  ; 
I've  often  been  over  to  Shaldon, 

To  see  how  your  boat  is  laid  up. 
In  spite  of  the  terrors  of  Aunty, 

I've  ridden  the  filly  you  broke  ; 
And  I've  studied  your  sweet  little  Dante 

In  the  shade  of  your  favourite  oak : 
When  I  sat  in  July  to  Sir  Lawrence, 

I  sat  in  your  love  of  a  shawl ; 
And  I'll  wear  what  you  brought  me  from  Flo- 

Perhaps,  if  you'll  come  to  our  Ball.      [rence 

You'll  find  us  all  changed  since  you  vanished  ; 

"We've  set  up  a  ISTational  School ; 
Aud  waltzing  is  utterly  banished; 

And  Ellen  has  married  a  fool; 
The  Major  is  going  to  travel ; 

Miss  Hyacinth  threatens  a  rout; 
The  walk  is  laid  down  with  fresh  gravel; 

Papa  is  laid  up  with  the  gout : 
And  Jane  has  gone  on  with  her  easels, 


202  OUK   BALL. 

And  Anne  has  gone  oil  with  Sir  Paul ; 
And  Fanny  is  sick  with  the  measles, 
And  I'll  tell  yon  the  rest  at  the  Ball. 

You'll  meet  all  your  beauties ; — the  Lily, 

And  the  Fairy  of  Willowbrook  Farm, 
And  Lucy,  who  made  me  so  silly 

At  Dawlish,  by  taking  your  arm ; 
Miss  Manners,  who  always  abused  you, 

For  talking  so  much  about  Hock  ; 
And  her  sister,  who  often  amused  you, 

By  raving  of  rebels  and  Eock  ; 
And  something  which  surely  would  answer. 

An  heiress  quite  fresh  from  Bengal ; — 
So,  tliough  you  were  seldom  a  dancer. 

You'll  dance,  just  for  ouce,  at  our  Ball. 

But  out  on  the  world! — from  the  flowers 

It  shuts  out  the  sunshine  of  truth ; 
It  blights  the  green  leaves  in  the  bowers, 

It  makes  an  old  age  of  our  youth : 
And  the  flow  of  our  feeling,  once  in  it. 

Like  a  streamlet  beginning  to  freeze, 
Though  it  cannot  turn  ice  in  a  minute, 

Grows  harder  by  sudden  degrees. 
Time  treads  o'er  the  graves  of  aifection ; 

Sweet  honey  is  turned  into  gall ; 
Perhaps  you  have  no  recollection 

That  ever  you  danced  at  our  Ball. 


OUE   BALL.  203 

You  once  conid  be  pleased  witli  onr  ballads — 

To-day  you  have  critical  ears; 
You  once  could  be  charmed  with  our  salads — 

Alas !  you've  been  dtning  with  Peers ; 
You  trifled  and  flirted  with  many ; 

You've  forgotten  the  when  and  the  how  ; 
There  was  one  you  liked  better  than  any — 

Perhaps  you've  forgotten  her  now. 
But  of  those  yon  remember  most  newly, 

Of  those  who  delight  or  inthrall, 
None  love  you  a  quarter  so  truly 

As  some  you  wiU  find  at  our  Ball. 

They  tell  me  you've  many  who  flatter, 

Because  of  your  wit  and  your  song; 
They  tell  me  (and  what  does  it  matter  ?) 

You  like  to  be  praised  by  the  throng ; 
They  tell  me  you're  shadowed  with  laurel, 

They  tell  me  you're  loved  by  a  Blue ; 
They  tell  me  you're  sadly  immoral — 

Dear  Clarence,  that  cannot  be  true ! 
But  to  me  you  are  stOl  what  I  found  you 

Before  you  grew  clever  and  tall ; 
And  you'll  think  of  the  spell  that  once  bound 
you: 

And  you'll  come,  won't  you  come?  to  our  Ball  ? 

(1S29.) 


204  PRIVATE   THEATEICALS. 

LETTERS  FROM^TEIGNMOUTH. 
n.— PRIVATE  THEATRICALS. 


Sweet,  when  Actors  first  appear, 

The  loud  collision  of  applauding  gloves! HouUris 


Your  labours,  my  talented  brother, 

Are  happily  over  at  last ; 
They  tell  me  that,  somehow  or  otlier, 

The  bill  is  rejected, — or  passed : 
And  now  you'U  be  coming,  I'm  certain, 

As  fast  as  yom*  posters  can  crawl, 
To  help  us  to  draw  up  our  curtain, 

As  usual,  at  Fustian  Hall. 

Arrangements  are  nearly  completed ; 

But  still  we've  a  lover  or  two. 
Whom  Lady  Albina  entreated 

We'd  keep  at  all  hazards  for  you  : 
Sir  Arthur  makes  horrible  faces, — 

Lord  John  is  a  trifle  too  tall, — 
And  yours  are  the  safest  embraces 

To  faint  in,  at  Fustian  Hall. 

Come,  Clarence ; — it's  really  enchanting 

To  listen  and  look  at  the  rout : 
We're  all  of  us  puffing,  and  panting. 


PEIVATE   THEA.TKICALS.  205 

And  raving,  and  running  about; 
Here  Kitty  and  Adelaide  bustle  ; 

There  Andrew  and  Anthony  bawl; 
Flutes  murmur,  chains  rattle,  robes  rustle, 

In  chorus,  at  Fustian  Hall. 

By  the  by,  there  are  two  or  three  matters 

"We  want  you  to  bring  us  from  town ; 
The  Inca's  white  plume  from  the  hatter's, 

A  nose  and  a  hump  for  the  Clown  : 
We  want  a  few  harps  for  our  banquet, 

"We  want  a  few  masks  for  our  ball ; 
And  steal  from  your  wise  friend,  Bosanquet, 

His  white  wig,  for  Fustian  Uall. 

Hunca  Munca  must  have  a  huge  sabre. 

Friar  Tuck  has  forgotten  his  cowl ; 
And  we're  quite  at  a  stand-still  with  "Weber, 

For  want  of  a  lizard  and  owl: 
And  then,  for  our  funeral  procession, 

Pray  get  us  a  love  of  a  pall ; 
Or  how  shall  we  make  an  impression 

On  feelings,  at  Fustian  Hall? 

And,  Clarence,  you'll  really  delight  us. 
If  you'll  do  your  endeavour  to  bring 

From  the  Club  a  young  person  to  write  us 
Our  prologue,  and  that  sort  of  thing: 

Poor  Crotchet,  who  did  them  supremely. 


206  PRIVATE    THEATRICALS. 

Is  gone,  for  a  judge,  to  Bengal ; 
I  feai-  we  shall  miss  him  extremely, 
This  season,  at  Fustian  Hall. 

Come,  Clai'ence ; — your  idol  Albina 

Will  make  a  sensation,  I  feel ; 
We  all  think  there  never  was  seen  a 

Performer  so  like  the  O'Neill. 
At  rehearsals,  her  exquisite  fancy 

Has  deeply  affected  us  all  ; 
For  one  tear  that  trickles  at  Drury, 

There'll  be  twenty  at  Fustian  Hall. 

Dread  objects  are  scattered  before  her, 

On  purpose  to  harrow  her  soul ; 
She  stares,  till  a  deep  spell  comes  o'er  her, 

At  a  knife,  or  a  cross,  or  a  bowl. 
Tlie  sword  never  seems  to  alarm  her, 

That  hangs  on  a  peg  to  the  wall, 
And  she  dotes  on  thy  rusty  old  armour, 

Lord  Fustian,  of  Fustian  Hall. 

She  stabbed  a  bright  mirror  this  morniag,- 

Poor  Kitty  was  quite  out  of  breath, — 
And  trampled,  in  anger  and  scorning, 

A  bonnet  and  feathers  to  death. 
But,  hark! — I've  a  part  in  the  Stranger, — 

There's  the  Prompter's  detestable  call : 
Come,  Clarence, — our  Romeo  and  Ranger, 

We  want  you  at  Fustian  Hall. 

(1531.) 


TALES    OUT   OF    SCHOOL.  20T 

TALES  OUT  OF  SCHOOL. 

A     DEOPPED     LETTER    FEOM    A     LADY. 

YocE  godson,  my  sweet  Lady  Bridget, 

Was  entered  at  Eton  last  May ; 
But  really,  I'm  all  in  a  fidget 

Till  the  dear  boy  is  taken  away ; 
For  I  feel  an  alarm  which,  I'm  certain, 

A  mother  to  you  may  confess, 
"When  the  newspaper  draws  up  the  curtain, 

The  terrible  "Windsor  Express. 

You  know  I  was  half  broken-hearted 

When  the  poor  fellow  whispered  "  Good-by !" 
As  soon  as  the  carriage  had  started, 

I  sat  down  in  comfort  to  cry. 
Sir  Thomas  looked  on  while  I  fainted. 

Deriding — the  bear! — my  distress; 
But  what  were  the  hardships  I  painted, 

To  the  tales  of  the  "Windsor  Express  ? 

The  planter  in  sultry  Barbadoes 

Is  a  terrible  tyrant,  no  doubt ; 
In  Moscow,  a  Count  carbonadoes 

His  ignorant  serfs  with  the  knout; 


208  TALES    OUT   OF    SCHOOL. 

Severely  men  smart  for  tlieir  errors, 
Who  dine  at  a  man-of-war's  mess ! 

But  Eton  has  crueller  terrors 

Than  these, — in  the  Windsor  Express. 

I  fancied  the  Doctor  at  College 

Had  dipped,  now  and  then,  into  books ; 
But,  bless  me !   I  find  that  his  knowledge 

Is  just  like  my  coachman's  or  cook's  : 
He's  a  dunce — I  have  heard  it  with  sorrow  ; — 

'Twould  puzzle  him  sadly,  I  guess, 
To  put  into  English  to-morrow 

A  page  of  the  Windsor  Express. 

All  preachers  of  course  should  be  preaching 

That  virtue's  a  very  good  thing; 
All  tutors  of  course  should  be  teaching 

To  fear  God  and  honour  the  King  ; 
But  at  Eton  they've  regular  classes 

For  folly,  for  vice,  for  excess ; 
They  learn  to  be  villains  and  asses, 

Nothing  else — ^in  the  Windsor  Express. 

Mrs.  Martha,  who  nursed  little  Willy, 
Believes  that  she  nursed  him  in  vain ; 

Old  John,  who  takes  care  of  the  filly, 
Says  "He'll  ne'er  come  to  mount  her  again!' 

My  Juliet  runs  up  to  her  mother, 
And  cries,  with  a  mournful  caress, 


PALINODIA.  209 

" Oh  where  have  you  seat  my  poor  brother? 
Look,  look  at  the  Wiudsor  Express!" 

Ring,  darling,  and  order  the  carriage ; 

"Whatever  Sir  Thomas  may  say, — 
Who  has  been  quite  a  fool  since  our  marriage, — ■ 

I'll  take  him  directly  avray. 
For  of  all  their  atrocious  ill-treating, 

The  end  it  is  easy  to  guess ; — 
Some  day  they'll  be  killing  and  eating 

My  boy — in  the  Windsor  Express  ! 

(Oct.  27, 1832.) 


PALINODIA. 


"Nee  mens  hie  sermo  est,  sed  qaem  prascepit." 

Horace. 


There  was  a  time  when  I  could  feel 

All  passion's  hopes  and  fears. 
And  tell  what  tongues  can  ne'er  reveal, 

By  smiles,  and  sighs,  and  tears. 
The  days  are  gone !  no  more  !  no  more, 

The  cruel  fates  allow  ; 
And  though  I'm  hardly  twenty-four, 

I'm  not. a  lover  now  ! 

Vor..  II.— 14 


210  PALINODIA. 

Lady,  the  mist  is  on  my  sight, 
The  chill  is  on  my  brow ; 

My  day  is  night,  my  bloom  is  blight, 
I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

I  never  talk  about  the  clouds, 

I  laugh  at  girls  and  boys ; 
I'm  growing  i-ather  fond  of  crowds, 

And  very  fond  of  noise — 
I  never  wander  forth  alone 

Upon  the  mountain's  brow ; 
I  weighed  last  winter  sixteen  stone — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now ! 

I  never  wish  to  raise  a  veil, 

I  never  raise  a  sigh, 
I  never  tell  a  tender  tale, 

I  never  tell  a  lie ; 
I  cannot  kneel  as  once  I  did, 

I've  quite  forgot  my  bow, 
I  never  do  as  I  am  bid — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now. 

I  make  strange  blunders  every  day. 

If  I  would  be  gallant — ■ 
Take  smiles  for  wrinkles,  black  for  gray, 

And  nieces  for  their  aunt ; 
I  fly  from  folly,  though  it  flows 

From  lips  of  loveliest  glow ; 


PALINODIA.  211 

I  don't  object  to  length  of  nose — 
I'm  not  a  lover  now ! 

I  find  my  Ovid  very  dry, 

My  Petrarch  quite  a  pill, 
Out  Fancy  for  Philosophy, 

Tom  Moore  for  Mr.  Mill. 
And  belles  may  read,  and  beaux  may  write — 

I  care  not  who  or  how ; 
I  burnt  my  album,  Sunday  night ; 

Fm  not  a  lover  now ! 

I  don't  encourage  idle  dreams 

Of  poison,  or  of  ropes ; 
I  cannot  dine  on  airy  schemes, 

I  cannot  sup  on  hopes ! 
New  milk,  I  own,  is  very  fine, 

Just  foaming  from  the  cow  ; 
But  yet,  I  want  my  pint  of  wine — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

"When  Laura  sings  young  hearts  away, 

I'm  deafer  than  the  deep  ; 
"When  Leonora  goes  to  play, 

I  sometimes  go  to  sleep ; 
"When  Mary  draws  her  white  gloves  out, 

I  never  dance,  I  vow — 
Too  hot  to  kick  one's  heels  about  I — 

Fm  not  a  lover  now  1 


212  PALINODIA. 

I'm  busy  now  witli  State  affairs, 

I  prate  of  Pitt  and  Fox ! 
I  ask  the  price  of  railroad  shares, 

I  watch  the  turns  of  stocks. 
And  this  is  life — no  verdure  blooms 

Upon  the  withered  bough ; 
I  save  a  fortune  iu  perfumes — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now ! 

I  may  be  yet  what  others  are, 

A  boudoir's  babbling  fool ; 
The  flattered  star  of  bench  or  bar, 

A  party's  chief  or  tool. 
Come  shower  or  sunshine — hope  or  fear, 

The  palace  or  the  plough, 
My  heart  and  lute  are  broken  here — 
I'm  not  a  lover  now ! 

Lady,  the  mist  is  on  my  sight, 

The  chill  is  on  my  brow; 
My  day  is  night,  my  bloom  is  blight, 
I'm  not  a  lover  now ! 

(1S26.) 


UTOPLV.  213 


UTOPIA. 


"  I  can  dream,  sir, 

If  I  eat  well  and  sleep  well" — The  Mad  Lott/r. 

If  I  could  scare  the  light  awaj, 

Xo  sun  should  ever  shine ; 
If  I  could  bid  the  clouds  obey, 

Thick  darkness  should  be  mine : 
Where'er  ray  weary  footsteps  roam^ 

I  hate  whate'er  I  see ; 
And  Fancy  builds  a  fairer  home 

In  slumber's  hour  for  me. 

I  had  a  vision  yesternight 

Of  a  lovelier  land  than  this, 
Where  heaven  was  clothed  in  warmth  and 
light, 

Where  earth  was  full  of  bliss ; 
And  every  tree  was  rich  with  fruits, 

And  every  field  with  flowers, 
And  every  zephyr  wakened  lutes 

In  passion-haunted  bowers. 

I  clambered  up  a  lofty  rock. 

And  did  not  find  it  steep ; 
I  read  through  a  page  and  a  half  of  Locke, 

And  did  not  fall  asleep ; 


214  UTOPIA. 

I  said  whate'er  I  may  but  feel, 

I  paid  whate'er  I  owe  ; 
And  I  danced  one  day  an  Irish  reel, 

With  the  gout  in  every  toe. 

And  I  was  more  than  six  feet  high, 

And  fortunate  and  wise ; 
And  I  had  a  voice  of  melody, 

And  beautiful  black  eyes ; 
My  horses  like  the  lightning  went. 

My  barrels  carried  true. 
And  I  held  my  tongue  at  an  argument. 

And  winning  cards  at  Loo. 

I  saw  an  old  Italian  priest 

Who  spoke  without  disguise ; 
I  dined  with  a  judge  who  swore,  like  Best, 

All  libels  should  be  lies  : 
I  bought  for  a  penny  a  twopenny  loal^ 

Of  wheat  and  nothing  more  ; 
I  danced  with  a  female  philosopher 

Who  was  not  quite  a  bore. 

The  kitchens  there  had  richer  roast, 
The  sheep  wore  whiter  wool ; 

I  read  a  witty  Morning  Post, 
And  an  innocent  John  BuU ; 

The  jailers  had  nothing  at  all  to  do, 
The  hangman  looked  forlorn, 


213 


UTOPIA. 

And  the  Peers  had  passed  a  vote  or  two 
For  freedom  of  trade  in  corn. 

There  was  a  crop  of  wheat,  which  grew 

Where  plough  was  never  brought ; 
There  was  a  noble  Lord,  who  knew 

Wliat  he  was  never  taught : 
A  scheme  appeared  in  the  Gazette 

For  a  lottery  with  no  blanks ; 
And  a  Parliament  had  lately  met, 

"Without  a  single  Bankes. 

And  there  were  kings  who  never  went 

To  cuffs  for  half- a- crown ; 
And  lawyers  who  were  eloquent 

Without  a  wig  and  gown  ; 
And  sportsmen  who  forbore  to  praise 

Their  greyhounds  and  their  guns ; 
And  poets  who  deserved  the  bays, 

And  did  not  dread  the  duns. 

And  boroughs  were  bought  without  a  test. 

And  no  man  feared  the  Pope ; 
And  the  Irish  cabins  were  all  possessed 

Of  liberty  and  soap ; 
And  the  Chancellor,  feeling  very  sick, 

Had  just  resigned  the  seals; 
And  a  clever  little  Catholic 

Was  hearing  Scotch  appeals. 


216  UTOPIA. 

I  went  one  day  to  a  Court  of  Law 

Trhere  a  fee  had  been  refused; 
And  a  Public  School  I  really  saw 

"Where  the  rod  was  never  used : 
And  the  sugar  still  was  very  sweet, 

Though  all  the  slaves  were  free  ; 
And  all  the  folk  in  Downing  street 

Had  learned  the  rule  of  three. 

There  love  had  never  a  fear  or  doubt ; 

December  breathed  like  June : 
The  Prima  Donna  ne'er  was  out 

Of  temper — or  of  tune ; 
The  streets  were  paved  with  mutton  pies, 

Potatoes  ate  like  pine  ; 
Nothing  looked  black  but  woman's  eyes ; 

Nothing  grew  old  but  wine. 

It  was  an  idle  dream ;  but  thou, 

The  worshipped  one,  wert  there, 
With  thy  dark  clear  eyes  and  beaming  brow, 

White  neck  and  floating  hair ; 
And,  oh !  I  had  an  honest  heart, 

And  a  house  of  Portland  stone ; 
And  thou  wert  dear,  as  still  thou  art, 

And  more  than  dear,  my  own ! 

Oh,  bitterness ! — the  morning  broke 
Alike  for  boor  and  bard  ; 


il^ySRIAGE   CHIMES.  21] 

And  tliou  wert  married  when  I  woke, 

And  all  the  rest  was  marred  : 
And  toil  and  trouble,  noise  and  steam, 

Canie  hack  with  the  coming  ray ; 
And,  if  I  thonght  the  dead  could  dream, 

I'd  hang  myself  to-day ! 


{182T.) 


MARRIAGE   CHIMES. 

"  Go  together, 

You  precious  winners  all." —  Wi7iter's  Tale. 

Fair  Lady,  ere  you  put  to  sea, 

You  and  your  mate  togethei-, 
I  meant  to  hail  you  lovingly, 

And  wish  you  pleasant  weather. 
I  took  my  fiddle  from  the  shelf; 

But  vain  was  all  my  labour ; 
For  still  I  thought  about  myself, 

And  not  about  my  neighbour. 

Safe  from  the  perils  of  the  war, 
Nor  killed,  nor  hurt,  nor  missing — 

Since  many  things  in  common  are 
Between  campaigns  and  kissing— 


218  M^lEEIAGE    CHIMES. 

Ungrazed  by  glance,  unbound  by  ring, 
Love's  carte  and  tierce  I've  parried, 

While  half  ray  friends  are  marrying, 
And  half — good  lack ! — are  married. 

'Tis  strange — but  I  have  passed  alive 

Where  darts  and  deaths  were  plenty, 
Until  I  find  my  twenty-five 

As  lonely  as  my  twenty : 
And  many  lips  have  sadly  sighed — 

Which  were  not  made  for  sighing. 
And  many  hearts  have  darkly  died — 

Which  never  dreamed  of  dying. 

Some  victims  fluttered  like  a  fly. 

Some  languished  like  a  lily ; 
Some  told  their  tale  in  poetry, 

And  some  in  Piccadilly  : 
Some  yielded  to  a  Spanish  hat. 

Some  to  a  Turkish  sandal ; 
Hosts  suffered  from  an  entrecliat, 

And  one  or  two  from  Handel. 

Good  Sterling  said  no  dame  should  come 
To  be  the  queen  of  his  bourn. 

But  one  who  only  prized  her  home, 
Her  spinning-wheel,  and  Gisborne: 

And  Mrs.  Sterling  says  odd  things 
With  most  sublime  effront'ry ; 


MAEKIAGE   CHIMES.  219 

Gives  lectures  on  elliptic  springs, 
And  follows  hounds  'cross  country. 

Sir  Roger  had  a  Briton's  pride 

In  freedom,  plough,  and  furrow ; — 
No  fortune  hath  Sir  Eoger's  bride, 

Except  a  rotten  borough : 
Gustavus  longed  for  truth  and  crumbs, 

Contentment  and  a  cottage  ; — 
His  Laura  bi-ings  a  pair  oijdutns 

To  boil  the  poor  man's  pottage. 

My  rural  coz,  who  loves  his  peace. 

And  swore  at  scientifics, 
Is  flirting  with  a  lecturer's  niece, 

Who  construes  hieroglyphics  : 
And  Foppery's  fool,  who  hated  Blues 

Worse  than  he  hated  Holborn, 
Is  raving  of  a  pensive  Muse, 

Who  does  the  verse  for  Colburn. 

And  Yyvyan,  Humour's  crazy  child,— 

Whose  worship,  whim,  or  passion, 
Was  still  for  something  strange  and  wi!(.'., 

Wit,  wickedness,  or  fashion, — 
Is  happy  with  a  little  Love, 

A  parson's  pretty  daughter, 
^s  tender  as  a  turtle-dove, — 

As  dull  as  milk  and  water. 


22C  MAItKIAGE    CHIMES. 

And  Gerard  hatli  his  ^N'orthern  Fay — 

His  nvmpli  of  mirth  and  haggis  ; 
And  Courtenay  wins  a  damsel  gay 

'Who  figures  at  Cokiaghi's  ; 
And  Davenant  now  has  drawn  a  prize, — 

I  hope  and  trust,  a  Yenus, 
Because  there  are  some  sympathies — 

As  -well  as  leagues — between  us. 

Thus  north  and  south,  and  east  and  west, 

The  chimes  of  Hymen  dingle ; 
But  I  shall  wander  on,  unblest, 

And  singularly  single ; 
Light-pursed,  light-hearted,  addle-brained, 

And  often  captivated. 
Yet,  save  on  circuit — unretained, 

And,  save  at  chess — unmated. 

Yet,  oh  ! — if  Xemesis  with  me 

Should  sport,  as  with  my  betters, 
And  put  me  on  my  awkward  knee 

To  prate  of  flowers  and  fetters, — 
I  know  not  whose  the  eyes  should  be 

To  make  this  fortress  tremble  ; 
But  yesternight  I  dreamed, — ah  mol 

"Whose  they  should  most  resemble! 

(November  20.  1S27.) 


SCHOOL    AJ57D   SCHOOL-FELLOWS.       221 


SCHOOL  AND  SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 

"  Floreat  Etona." 

Twelve  years  ago  I  made  a  mock 

Of  filthy  trades  aud  traffics ; 
I  wondered  what  they  meant  by  stock ; 

I  wrote  delightful  sapphics : 
I  knew  the  streets  of  Koine  and  Troy, 

I  supped  with  fates  and  furies ; 
Twelve  years  ago  I  was  a  boy, 

A  happy  boy,  at  Drury's. 

Twelve  years  ago ! — how  many  a  tliought 

Of  faded  pains  and  pleasures 
Those  whispered  syllables  have  brought 

From  memory's  hoarded  treasures ! 
The  fields,  the  farms,  the  bats,  tlie  books, 

The  glories  and  disgraces. 
The  voices  of  dear  friends,  the  looks 

Of  old  familiar  faces ! 

Kind  Mater  smiles  again  to  me, 
As  bright  as  when  we  parted ; 

I  seem  again  the  frank,  the  free, 
Stout-limbed,  and  simple-hearted; 


222      SCHOOL    AND    SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 

Pursuing  every  idle  dream, 
And  shunning  every  warning ; 

With  no  hard  work  but  Bovney  Stream, 
No  chill  except  Long  Morning: 

Now  stopping  Harry  Vernon's  ball, 

That  rattled  like  a  rocket ; 
Now  hearing  Wentworth's  "  Fourteen  all,' 

And  striking  for  the  pocket : 
Now  feasting  on  a  cheese  and  flitch, 

Now  drinking  from  the  pewter ; 
Now  leaping  over  Chalvey  ditch, 

Now  laughing  at  my  tutor. 

Where  are  my  friends? — I  am  alone. 

No  playmate  shares  my  beaker — 
Some  lie  beneath  the  churchyard  stouw, 

And  some  before  the  Speaker ; 
And  some  compose  a  tragedy. 

And  some  compose  a  rondo ; 
And  some  draw  sword  for  liberty, 

And  some  draw  pleas  for  John  Doe. 

Tom  Mill  was  used  to  blacken  eyes, 
Without  the  fear  of  sessions ; 

Charles  Medler  loathed  false  quantities,    • 
As  much  as  false  professions. 

Now  Mill  keeps  order  in  the  laud, 
A  magistrate  pedantic ; 


SCHOOL    AND    SCHOOL-FELLOWS.       223 

And  Medler's  feet  repose,  unscannod, 
Beneath  the  wide  Atlantic. 

Wild  Nick,  Avhose  oaths  made  such  a  din, 

Does  Dr.  Martext's  duty  ; 
And  MuUion,  with  that  monstrous  chin, 

Is  married  to  a  heauty  ; 
And  Darrel  studies,  week  hy  weelf, 

His  Mant,  and  not  his  Manton  ; 
And  Ball,  who  was  hut  poor  at  Greek, 

Is  very  rich  at  Canton. 

And  I  am  eight-and-twenty  now — 

The  world's  cold  chains  have  bound  me ; 
And  darker  shades  are  on  my  brow. 

And  sadder  scenes  around  me  : 
In  Parliament  I  fill  my  seat, 

"With  many  other  noodles; 
And  lay  my  head  in  Jermyn-street, 

And  sip  my  hock  at  Boodle's. 

But  often,  when  the  cares  of  life 

Have  set  ray  temples  aching, 
"When  visions  haunt  me  of  a  wife. 

When  duns  aAvait  my  waking, 
"When  Lady  Jane  is  in  a  pet. 

Or  Hoby  in  a  hurry, 
When  Captain  Hazard  wins  a  bet, 

Or  Beaulieu  spoils  a  curry : 


224      SCHOOL   AND    SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 

For  hours  and  hours  I  think  and  talk 

Of  each  remembered  hobby; 
I  long  to  lounge  in  Poet's  Walk — 

To  shiver  in  the  lobby ; 
I  wish  that  I  could  run  away 

From  house,  and  court,  and  levee, 
"Where  bearded  men  appear  to-day, 

Just  Eton  boys,  grown  heavy ; 

That  I  could  bask  in  childhood's  sun, 

And  dance  o'er  childhood's  roses ; 
And  find  huge  wealth  in  one  pound  one, 

Vast  wit  in  broken  noses  ; 
And  play  Sir  Giles  at  Datchet  Lane, 

And  call  the  milkmaids  houris ; 
That  I  could  be  a  hoy  again — 

A  happy  boy  at  Drury's  1 

(1829.) 


PEOLOQUE    TO    "THE    nONEYMOON."       225 


PROLOGUE 

FOE  AN  AMATKTTE  PERFOKMANOE  OF  "  THE  HONEY- 
MOON." 

"We  want" — the  Ducliess  said  to  me  to-day, — 
"  We  want,  fair  sir,  a  prologue  for  our  play. 
A  charming  play  to  show  a  charming  robe  in, 
'  The    Honeymoon'  "— "  By   Phoebus !"—"  JS'o  : 

by  Tobin." 
"A  prologue  !" — I  made  answer — "  if  you  need 

one, 
In  every  street  and  square  your  Grace  may  read 

one." 

"  Cruel  papa!  don't  talk  about  Sir  Harry  I"— 

So  Araminta  lisped ; — "  I'll  never  marry  ; 

I  loathe  all  men ;  such  unromantic  creatures ! 

The  coarsest  tastes,  and,  ah !  the  coarsest 
features ! 

Betty ! — the  salts ! — I'm  sick  with  mere  vexa- 
tion, 

To  hear  them  called  the  Lords  of  the  Creation: 

They  swear  fierce  oaths,  they  seldom  say  their 
prayers ; 

And  then,  they  shsd  no  tears,— unfeeling  bears' 
Vol.  II.— 15 


226   PROLOGUE  TO  "tHE  HONEYilOON." 

I,  and  the  friend  I  share  my  sorrows  with, 
Medora  Gertrude  "Wilheluiina  Smith, 
Will  weep  together  thi-ough  the  world's  disas- 
ters, 
In  some  green  vale,  unplagued  by  Lords    and 

Masters, 
And  hand  in  hand  repose  at  last  in  death, 
As  chaste  and  cold  as  Queen  Elizabeth." 
She  spoke  in  May,  and  people  found  in  June, 
This  was  Tier  Prologue  to  the  Honeymoon  I 

"Frederic  is  poor,  I  own  it,"  Fanny  sighs, 
"  But  then  he  loves  me,  and  has  deep  blue  eyes. 
Since  I  was  nine  years  old,  and  he  eleven. 
We've  loved  each  other,— 'Love  is  light  from 

Heaven !' 
And  penury  with  love,  I  will  not  doubt  it. 
Is  better  far  than  palaces  without  it. 
We'll  have  a  quiet  curacy  in  Kent; 
We'll  keep  a  cow ;  and  we'll  be  so  content ! 
Forgetting  that  my  father  drove  fine  horses, 
And  that  my  mother  dined  upon  three  courses, 
There  I  shall  sit,  perusing  Frederic's  verses. 
Dancing  in  spring,  in  winter  knitting  purses; 
Mending  the  children's  pinafores  and  frills. 
Wreathing  sweet  flowers,  and  paying  butcher's 

bills." 
Alas,  poor  Fanny !  she  will  find  too  soon 
Her  Prologue's  better  than  her  Honeymoon, 


PF.OLOGUE  TO  "tue  honeymooit."     227 

But,  lo!  wliere  Laura,  with  a  frenzied  air. 

Seeks  her  kind  cousia  in  her  pony  chair, 

And  in  a  mournful  voice,  by  thick  sol)s  broken. 

Cries  "Yes,  dear  Anne!  the  favours  are  be- 
spoken ; 

I  am  to  have  him ; — so  my  friends  decided ; 

The  stars  knew  quite  as  much  of  it  as  I  did ! 

You  know  him,  love; — he  is  so  like  a  mum- 
my;— 

I  wonder  whether  diamonds  will  become  me  ! 

He  talks  of  notliing  but  the  price  of  stocks ; 

However,  I'm  to  have  my  opera  box. 

That  pert  thing,  Ellen,  thought  she  could  secure 
him, — 

I  wish  she  had,  I'm  sure  I  can't  endure  hira ! 

The  cakes  ai'e  ordered; — how  my  lips  will 
falter 

When  I  stand  fainting  at  the  marriage  altar  ! 

But  I'm  to  have  him !  Oh,  the  vile  baboon!" 

Strange  Prologue  this  for  Laura's  Honeymoon ! 

Enough  of  Prologues ;  surely  I  should  say 
One  word,  before  I  go,  about  the  play. 
Instead  of  hurrying  madly  after  marriage 
To  some  lord's  villa  in  a  travelling  carriage. 
Instead  of  seeking  earth's  remotest  ends 
To  hide  their  blushes  and  avoid  their  friends. 
Instead  of  haunting  lonely  lanes  and  brooks 
"With  no  companions  but  the  doves  and  rooks, — 


223      PKOLOGUE   TO    "THE    HONEYMOON." 

Our  Duke  and  Ducliess  open  wide  their  Hall, 
And  bid  you  warmly  welcome,  one  and  all, 
Who  come  with  hearts  of  kindness,  eyes  of  light, 
To  see,  and  share,  theii-  Honeymoon  to-night. 

(jAinjAEY  19, 1880.) 


POEMS  WEITTEX  L^  EAELY  YOUTH. 


ON  PITY. 

Sweet  is  it  to  the  warrior's  ear 

To  mark  the  claraorous  battle-cry, 
But  sweeter  far  the  crystal  tear 

That  falls  from  Pity's  moistened  eye ; 
And  savage  is  the  cruel  beast 

That  prowls  round  Gondar's  lofty  tower, 
But  harder  far  that  human  breast 

That  ne'er  has  felt  soft  Pity's  power. 

But  see,  with  ostentatious  sneer 

Will  Laura  precious  gifts  bestow; 
Emilia  often  sheds  the  tear, 

But  affectation  bids  it  flow. 
These  do  not  own  compassion's  reign; 

True  pity  acts  not  such  a  part ; 
It  flies  the  rich,  it  flies  the  vain, — 

It  dwells  in  kind  Sophia's  heart. 

Whene'er  the  poor,  worn  out  with  woe, 
Oppressed  with  trouble,  years,  and  grief, 

From  breasts  which  feel  compassion's  glow 
Solicit  mild  the  kind  relief, — 

Then  Laura  opes  her  ready  hand, 
The  tear  bedews  Emilia's  eye ; 


232         ON    AN    OLD   HOUSEKEEPER. 

Sophia  quits  the  selfish  band 
To  soothe  the  pangs  of  Poverty. 

Gold  can  but  present  help  afford  ; 

Emilia's  tear  is  wiped  away  ; 
Sophia  feels  her  just  reward, 

A  bliss  which  never  will  decay. 
This,  the  reward  of  virtue,  this 

Th'  unfeeling  heart  will  never  know : 
It  is  the  only  earthly  bliss 

Which  is  not  mixed  with  earthly  woe. 

(1815.) 


ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  AN  OLD 
HOUSEKEEPER. 

'Tis  past ;  and  since  she  is  forever  fled, 
With  all  her  by-gone  blunders  on  her  head, 
Let  not  the  laugh,  the  sneer,  pursue  her  still, 
Nor  mark  her  failings,  where  she  meant  no  ill. 
Cease  now  her  foibles,  Ridicule,  to  tell ; 
Let  Gratitude  declare — she  loved  ns  well. 

Can  we  forget,  now  when  for  aye  we  part, 
Her  charity,  the  goodness  of  her  heart. 


ON    AN    OLD    HOUSEKEEPER.  233 

Her  wish  to  please,  her  readiness  to  lend 
(Althougli  unasked)  assistance  to  a  friend  ? 
Can  we  forget  all  these  ?  and  yet  retain 
The  few — the  puny  errors  of  her  hrain  ? 
You  who  are  blind  to  what  her  heart  could  do, 
Be  just  at  least,  dismiss  her  failings  too  : 
Grant — while  an  inmate,   her   mistakes   could 

tease. 
Her  look  amuse  us,  or  her  faults  displease, — 
Yet  now — her  fancies  and  her  follies  past — 
Her  failings  vanish,  while  her  love  will  last. 
Still,  when  she  calls  to  mind  her  happiest  days, 
She'll  load  her  former  friends  with  well-meant 

praise  ; 
Still  will  regret  that,  forced  at  length  to  roam. 
She  leaves  the  spot  she  called  so  long  her  home. 

Let  us  our  ridicule,  our  mocking,  end ; 
Quit  the  companion,  yet  retain  the  friend  ; 
Forgive  her  faults,  for  there  no  malice  lowers ; 
Forget  those  faults,  for  she  was  blind  to  ours. 

(1816.) 


iio4:  VALE2;TIi\'ES. 


VALENTINES. 

I.— IMITATION   OF   METASTASIO'S 
"PARTENZA." 

SiSTEE,  far  from  thee  I'm  gone  ; 

And  often,  silent  and  alone, 

Sudden  starts  a  willing  tear 

Which  would  not  fall  if  thou  wert  here  ; 
But  thou,  my  Susan,  who  can  tell 
If  thy  least  thought  on  me  shall  dwell  ? 

How  quick  our  meeting  days  have  passed  ! 

But  human  pleasures  will  not  last ; 

And  Learning's  all-consuming  power 

Hastened  on  our  parting  hour. 

But  thou,  my  Susan,  who  can  tell 

If  thy  least  thought  on  me  shall  dwell  ? 

But  quickly  stiU,  from  day  to  day, 

Flies  the  hasty  time  away  ; 

Fraught  with  hope  and  sportive  glee, 

I'll  soon  revisit  home  and  thee ; 

Whilst  thou,  my  Susan,  who  can  tell 
If  thy  least  thought  on  me  shall  dwell  ? 


VALENTINES.  235 

But  stay,  I  wrong  tliee,  gentle  dove, 

I  know  I  wrong  thy  tender  love ; 

Oft  thine  eye  will  shed  a  tear, 

"Which  would  not  fall  if  I  were  near ; 
Yes,  yes,  my  Susan,  I  can  tell, 
Oft  thy  thoughts  on  me  will  dweU. 

(February  14, 1816.) 


II.— A  MADRIGAL. 

When  weeping  friends  are  parting. 
Oh,  then  their  hearts  are  smarting! 
But  when  they're  just  returning, 
Oh,  then  their  hearts  are  burning  I 

They're  merry  all, 

Nor  once  recall 
The  tear  they  shed  at  parting. 

(Febeuaby  14, 1817.) 


236  VALENTINES. 


HL— THE  DOVE 

Tell  me,  little  darling  Dove, 
Whence  and  \rhitlier  dost  thou  rove  ? 

I  am  in  haste  ;  a  brother  tied 
This  doggerel  greeting  to  my  side  ; 
May  every  good  my  sister  bless, — 
Life,  virtue,  health,  and  happiness; 
Not  vulgar  mirth,  but  modest  sense ; 
Not  mines  of  gold,  but  competence  ; 
"With  these  her  bark  may  peaceful  glide, 
Uninjured,  down  life's  swelling  tide. 
May  soft  Content's  all-healing  power 
Stand  ready  for  each  suffering  hour. 
Enhance  the  good  the  Fates  bestow, 
And  mitigate  the  pangs  of  woe. 
Each  year  may  an  adoring  crew 
New  Valentines  around  her  strew ; 
Be  every  page,  be  every  line. 
As  ardent,  as  sincere,  as  mine ! 

(FEBRtTAKY  14,  181T.) 


VALENTINES.  237 


IV.— THE  DEITIES. 

Each  god  lias  left  his  heavenly  seat, 

Olympus,  for  a  while  ; 
And  animates  a  mortal  shape 

In  Britain's  favoured  i.sle  ; 
Ye  Deities,  no  thin  disguise 
Conceals  ye  from  a  poet's  eyes ! 

Jove  thunders  as  Britannia's  King, 

And  Bacchus  is  his  son  ; 
And  Byron  strikes  Apollo's  lyre ; 

And  Mars  is  Wellington. 
Like  Neptune,  Exmouth  rules  the  sea,- 
But  lovely  Venus  smiles  in  thee. 

Yet  not  alone  does  Venus  smile ; 

For  there  are  joined  in  thee 
The  Muses'  verse,  Minerva's  sense, 

And  Juno's  majesty : 
The  Graces  o'er  thy  figure  rove. 
And  every  feature  beams  with  Love. 


C1817.) 


A   FABLE. 


A  FABLE. 

TO    HIS   ELDEST   SISTER   OST   HEE   BIRTHDAY. 

Virtue  (a  nymph  yon  well  must  know) 
Met  gently  warbling  Erato ; 
And  after  bows,  and  "how  d'ye  do's," 
She  thus  addressed  the  smiling  Muse : 
"How  is  it, — tell  me,  Erato, — 
That  you  and  I  such  strangers  grow  ? 
If  at  your  Mount  my  foot  I  set, 
Flat  '  Not  at  home'  is  all  I  get : 
"When  first  you  called  a  meeting  there. 
And  Phoebus  deigned  to  take  the  chair, 
The  sire  of  men,  of  gods  the  king, 
Your  patron,  Jove, — he  bade  you  sing 
Not  those  who  in  false  glory  shine, 
But  those  who  bow  to  Virtue's  shrine ; 
And  scorn  you  Jove  ?     For  now  I  deem 
That  Virtue  is  your  rarest  theme ! 
Calliope,  when  war  she  sings. 
Forgets  the  truth  to  flatter  kings ; 
Euterpe  thinks  me  low  and  mean, 
Thalia  drives  me  from  her  scene, 
Melpomene  like  Folly  rants. 
Dishonest  Olio  scrawls  romance; 


A   FABLE.  239 

E'en  your  own  soft,  enticing  measure 
Has  left  poor  me,  and  Hows  for  Pleasure." 

"  Cease  your  upbraidings!"  cries  the  Muse: 

"  An  ear  at  least  you  can't  refuse: 

I'll  answer  you  for  all  the  Mne  ; 

The  few  who  bow  at  Virtue's  shrine 

Are  better  pleased  with  artless  praise 

Than  all  the  force  of  studied  lays. 

The  page  of  sUver-flowing  rhyme 

May  hide  a  fault,  or  gild  a  crime ; 

But  you,  and  those  who  choose  your  part. 

Require  the  language  of  the  heart ; 

And  such  will  smile,  and  read  with  pleasure, 

If  'tis  sincere,  a  doggerel  measure  ; 

Though  only  on  the  page  they  view 

Congratulation — and  Adieu!" 

(1817.) 


240      LINES    ON   LEAVING   OTl'EKTON. 


LINES  ON  LEAVING  OTTERTON. 

Sweet  spot,  whose  real  joy  excels 
What  Fancy's  pencil  ever  drew, 
Where  Innocence  with  Pleasure  dwells, 
And  Peace  with  Poverty — adieu  ! 
If  perfect  bliss  resides  on  earth, 
Here  lies  the  spot  that  gives  it  birth. 

And  you,  whose  presence  throws  a  gleam 

Of  pleasure  o'er  the  poor  man's  lot, 
Who  well  to  Fancy's  eye  might  seem 
The  Genii  of  the  peaceful  spot, — 
Fond  Memory  oft  will  bring  to  view 
The  welcome  that  we  found  with  you. 

It  is  not  yours  in  hall  or  bower 

The  semblance  of  a  smile  to  wear ; 
But  yours  it  is,  in  sorrow's  hour, 
To  stop  the  sufferer's  falling  tear : 
Nor  yours  the  fleeting,  vain  reward 
That  earthly  power  and  pomp  award. 

From  pomp  and  power  men  are  riven 
At  every  change  of  Fortime's  will ; 


LI^•ES    02^    LEAVIXQ    OTTERTON.       241 

One  purer  bliss  to  you  is  given, 
A  heart  that  acts  not,  tliinks  not,  ill. 
The  tyrant  well  for  such  a  gem 
Might  quit  his  blood-bought  diadem. 

But  we  must  part  at  length  ;  'tis  sad 
Upon  such  scenes  as  these  to  dwell, 
Since  scenes  like  these  can  only  add 
Xew  sorrow  to  our  long  farewell : 
Pure  was  our  happiness — no  more ! 
We  part ;  that  happiness  is  o'er. 

"We  go ;  but  we  shall  not  forget 

Those  symptoms  of  a  friendly  heart, 
The  smile  you  wore  because  we  met, 
The  tear  you  shed  because  we  part ; 
And  Hope  already  paints  how  sweet 
The  hour  when  we  again  shall  meet. 

(181T.) 

Vol.  n.— 16 


24:2  FORGET    ME   NOT. 


FORGET  ME  NOT. 

When  thy  sad  master's  far  away, 

Go,  happier  far  than  he, — 
Go,  little  flower,  with  her  to  stay 

With  whom  he  may  not  be ; 
There  bid  lier  raouru  his  wayward  lot, 
And  whisper  still,  "Forget  me  not!" 

Sweet  as  the  gale  of  fate,  that  blew 
To  waft  me  to  a  spot  like  this. 

Frail  as  the  hours,  that  quickly  flew 
To  tear  me  from  the  transient  bliss- 

Thy  humble  blossoms  long  shall  prove 

An  emblem  fit  for  parted  love. 


(1817". 


WOMAN. 


2-13 


WOMAN. 

A      FEAGiilEXT. 

"Woman  !  thou  loveliest  gift  that  here  below 
Man  can  receive,  oi*  Providence  bestow  ! 
To  thee  the  earhest  offerings  belong 
Of  opening  eloquence,  or  youthful  song  ; 
Lovely  partaker  of  our  clearest  joys! 
Thyself  a  gift  whose  pleasure  never  cloys, — 
Whose  wished-for  presence  gently  can  appease 
The  wounds  of  penury,  or  slow  disease, — 
Whose  loss  is  such,  as  through  life's  tedious  way 
No  rank  can  compensate,  no  wealth  repay ; 
Thy  figure  beams  a  ray  of  heavenly  light 
To  cheer  the  darkness  of  our  earthly  night : 
Hail,  fair  Enslaver!  at  thy  changing  glance 
Boldness  recedes,  and  timid  hearts  advance, 
Monarchs  forget  their  sceptre  and  their  sway, 
And  sages  melt  in  tenderness  away. 

asi&) 


244 


MTTNITO. 


MUNITO. 

FROM   A    POEM   ON   DOGS. 

Though  great  Spadille,  or  that  famed  Pi-iuce  of 

Loo, 
AJl-conquering   Pam,  turn   backward  from  liis 

view, — 
Swift  in  the  noble  chase,  Munito  tracks 
The  Royal  guests  amid  Plebeian  packs ; 
And  though  the  cards  in  mixed  confusion  lie, 
And  mock  the  vigour  of  a  human  eye, 
Munito  still,  with  more  than  human  art, 
Knows  Kings  from  Knaves,  the  Diamond  from 

the  Heart : 
Happy  were  men,  if  thus  in  graver  things 
Our  Knaves  were  always  parted  from  our  Kings ; 
Happy  the  maid,  who  in  Love's  maze  can  part 
The  miser's  Diamond  from  the  lover's  Heart  I 

(1818.) 


LINES    IN    VOLTAIRE'S    CHARLES    XII.       245 


LINES 

WEITTEN   IX   THE   FIE3T   LEAF   OF    VOLTAIEE's 
"niSTOIEE   DE   OHAELES   511." 

Thott  little  Book,  thy  leaves  unfold 

A  tale  of  wonder  and  of  glorv, 
And  warring  kings  and  barons  bold 
•     Adorn  the  pages  of  thy  story. 

Thy  vein  is  noble  ;  meet  and  fit 
To  catch  and  charm  a  youthful  eye ; 

Thou  teem'st  with  wonder  and  with  wit; 
And  yet  I  look  on  thee,  and  sigh : 

Thy  tales  are  sweet,  but  they  renew 
Visions  how  sad  I  yet,  ah,  how  dear ! 

Vain  fancies  mock  my  wandering  view, 
And  recollection  wakes  a  tear. 

Thou  bidd'st  me  think  upon  the  hours 
When  giddy  Tizy  ri)und  me  ran ; 

When  glad  I  left  Etona's  bowers, 
To  laugh  with  laughing  Mary  Anne  : 

When  Susan's  voice  of  tenderness 
My  darkest  sorrows  could  beguile ; 


246     LINES  IN  Voltaire's  charles  xii. 

When  study  wore  its  fairest  dress, 
Adorned  by  good  Eliza's  smile. 

Alas !  too  soon  before  mine  eye 

"Was  spread  tlie  page  of  ancient  lore ; 

Too  soon  that  meeting  fleeted  by, 

Too  soon  those  dreams  of  bliss  were  o'er 

I  look  on  thee,  and  think  again 

Upon  those  halcyon  days  of  gladness, 

While  Memory  mingles  joy  and  pain,        * 
A  mournful  bliss,  a  pleasing  sadness. 

Ye  friends  with  whom  I  may  not  be, 
Ye  forms  that  I  have  loved  and  left, 

What  pleasure  now  shall  beam  on  me, 
Of  home  and  of  your  smiles  bereft  ? 

My  lot  and  yours  are  parted  now ; 

And,  oh!  I  should  not  thus  repine. 
If  Fortune  would  on  you  bestow 

The  happiness — which  is  not  mine. 

Long  weeks  must  pass,  ere  I  may  greet 
•     The  glad  return  of  former  bliss, — 
Ere  I  may  fly  again  to  meet 
A  cousin's  smile,  a  sister's  kiss, 

(Eton,  1S20.) 


TO   FLORENCE.  247 


TO  FLORENCE. 

Long  years  have  passed  with  silent  pace, 

Florence,  since  thou  and  I  have  met ; 
Yet — when  that  meeting  I  retrace, 

My  cheek  is  pale,  my  eye  is  wet ; 
For  I  was  doomed  from  thence  to  rove, 

O'er  distant  tracts  of  earth  and  sea, 
Unaided,  Florence! — save  by  love; 

And  nnrememhered — sa,ve  by  thee ! 
Wa  met !  and  hope  beguiled  our  fears, 

Hope,  ever  bright  and  ever  vain ; 
We  parted  thence  in  silent  tears, 

Never  to  meet — in  life — again. 
The  myrtle  that  I  gaze  upon, 

Sad  token  by  thy  love  devised. 
Is  all  the  record  left  of  one 

So  long  bewailed — so  dearly  prized. 
You  gave  it  in  an  hour  of  grief. 

When  gifts  of  love  are  doubly  dear ; 
You  gave  it — and  one  tender  leaf 

Glistened  the  while  with  Beauty's  tear. 
A  tear — oh,  Iqvelier  far  to  me. 

Shed  for  me  m  my  saddest  hour, 
Than  bright  and  flattering  smiles  could  be, 

In  courtly  hall  or  summer  bower. 


248  TO   FLOEEXCE. 

You  strove  my  anguish  to  beguile, 

With  distant  hopes  of  future  weal; 
You  strove! — alas!  you  could  not  smile, 

Nor  speak  the  hope  you  did  not  feel. 
I  bore  the  gift  Affection  gave, 

O'er  desert  sand  and  thorny  brake, 
O'er  rugged  rock  and  stormy  wave, 

I  loved  it  for  the  giver's  sake; 
And  often  in  my  happiest  day, 

In  scenes  of  bliss  and  hours  of  pride, 
"When  all  around  was  glad  and  gay, 

I  looked  upon  the  gift — and  sighed : 
And  when  on  ocean,  or  on  clift, 

Forth  strode  the  Spirit  of  the  Storm, 
I  gazed  upon  thy  fading  gift, 

I  thought  upon  thy  fading  form  ; 
Forgot  the  lightning's  vivid'dart, 

Forgot  the  rage  of  sky  and  sea. 
Forgot  the  doom  that  bade  us  part — 

And  only  lived  to  love  and  thee. 
Florence !  thy  myrtle  blooms !  but  thou, 

Beneath  thy  cold  and  lowly  stone, 
Forgetful  of  our  mutual  vow, 

And  of  a  heart — still  all  thine  own, 
Art  laid  in  that  unconscious  sleep. 

Which  he  that  wails  thee  soon  must  know, 
Where  none  may  smile  and  none  may  weep, 

None  di'eam  of  bliss,  nor  wake  to  woe. 
If  e'er,  as  Fancy  oft  will  feign, 


TO   FLORENCE.  249 

To  that  dear  spot  which  gave  thee  birtli 
Thy  fleeting  shade  returns  again, 

To  look  on  him  thou  lov'dst  on  earth, 
It  may  a  moment's  joy  impart, 

To  know  that  this,  thy  favourite  tree, 
Is  to  ray  desolated  heart 

Almost  as  dear  as  thou  couldst  be. 
My  Florence! — soon — the  thought  is  sweet! 

The  turf  that  wraps  thee  I  shall  press ; 
Again,  my  Florence !  we  shall  meet, 

In  bliss — or  in  forgetfulness. 
With  thee  in  Death's  oblivion  laid, 

I  will  not  have  the  dyprcss  gloom 
To  throw  its  sicklj',  sullen  shade 

Over  the  stillness  of  my  tomb : 
And  there  the  'scutcheon  shall  not  shine, 

And  there  the  banner  .shall  not  wave; 
The  treasures  of  the  glittering  mine 

Would  ill  become  a  lover's  grave : 
But  when  from  this  abode  of  strife 

My  liberated  shade  shall  roam. 
Thy  myrtle,  that  has  cheered  my  life, 

Shall  decorate  my  narrow  home: 
And  it  shall  bloom  in  beauty  there, 

Like  Florence  in  her  early  day; 
Or,  nipped  by  cold  December's  air, 

Wither — like  Hope  and  thee — away. 

(1820.) 


250  MARTUS. 


MARIUS   AMIDST  THE    RUINS    OF 
CARTHAGE. 

Carthage  !  I  love  thee!  thou  hast  run, 

As  I,  a  warlike  race ; 
And  now  thy  Glory's  radiant  sun 

Hath  veiled  in  clouds  his  face  ; 
Thy  days  of  pride — as  mine — depart ; 
Thy  gods  desert  thee,  and  thou  art 

A  thing  as  nobly  base 
As  he  whose  sullen  footstep  falls 
To-night  around  thy  crumbling  walls. 

And  Rome  hath  heaped  her  woes  and  paing 

Alike  on  me  and  thee ; 
And  thou  dost  sit  in  servile  chains, — 

But  mine  they  shall  not  be ! 
Though  fiercely  o'er  this  aged  head 
The  wrath  of  angry  Jove  is  shed, 

Marius  shall  still  be  free. 
Free, — in  the  pride  that  scorns  his  foe, 
And  bares  the  head  to  meet  the  blow. 

I  wear  not  yet  thy  slavery's  vest. 
As  desolate  I  roam ; 


EDWAED   MOKTON.  251 

And  though  tho  sword  were  at  my  breast, 

The  torches  in  ray  home, 
Still — still,  for  orison  and  vow, 
I'd  fling  them  back  my  curse — as  now ; 

I  scorn,  I  hate  thee — Rome ! 
My  voice  is  weak  to  word  and  threat — 
My  arm  is  strong  to  battle  yet  I 

U821.) 


EDWARD  MORTON. 

"NovEMBEK  26. — Heard  of  tlie  death  of  poor  Morton.  If 
ever  man  died  of  love,  it  was  Edward  Morton.  Since  his 
death,  a  small  collection  of  poems,  written  by  him  at  different 
periods  of  his  life,  has  been  put  into  my  hands  ;  wliich  I  shall 
insert  from  time  to  time,  with  the  signature  'E.  M.'" — Th& 
Estonian,  vol.  i.  pp.  313,  ST4. 

I. 

There  was  a  voice — a  foolish  voice — 

In  my  heart's  summer  echoing  through  me ; 

It  bade  me  hope,  it  bade  rejoice. 

And  still  its  sounds  were  precious  to  me; 

But  thou  hast  plighted  that  deep  vow, 

And  it  were  sin  to  love  thee  now ! 


252  EDWAED   MOETON. 

I  will  not  love  tliee  !     I  am  tnnglit 
To  slum  the  dream  on  which  I  doted, 

And  tear  iny  soul  from  every  thought 
On  which  its  dearest  vision  floated ; 

And  I  have  prayed  to  look  on  thee 

As  coldly  as  thou  dost  on  me. 

Alas!  the  love  indeed  is  gone, 
But  still  I  feel  its  melancholy ; 

And  the  deep  struggle,  long  and  lone, 
That  stifled  all  my  youthful  folly, 

Took  but  away  the  guilt  of  sin, 

And  left  me  all  its  pain  within. 

Adieu !  if  thou  hadst  seen  the  heart — 
The  silly  heart  thou  wert  beguiling, 

Thou  wouldst  not  have  inflamed  the  smart 
With  all  thy  bright,  unconscious  smiling; 

Thou  wouldst  not  so  have  fanned  the  blaze 

That  grew  beneath  those  quiet  rays  ! 

Nay,  it  was  well ! — for  smiles  like  this 
Delayed  at  least  my  bosom's  fever! 

Nay,  it  was  well,  since  hope  and  bliss 
Were  fleeting  quickly,  and  forever. 

To  snatch  them  as  they  passed  away, 

And  meet  the  anguish  all  to-day  1 


EDWAKD  MOETON.  253 

II. 

I  DO  not  weep ;  the  grief  I  feel 
Is  not  tlie  grief  tliat  dims  the  eye; 

No  accents  speak,  no  tears  reveal 
The  inward  pain  that  cannot  die. 

Mary !  thou  know'st  not — none  can  know 
The  silent  woe  that  still  must  live ; 

I  would  not  change  that  silent  woe 
For  all  the  joy  the  world  can  give. 

Yet,  by  thine  hair  so  lightly  flowing, 

And  by  thy  smiling  lips,  I  vow, 
And  by  thy  cheek  so  brightly  glowing, 

And  by  the  meekness  of  thy  brow, 

And  by  those  eyes,  whose  tranquil  beam 

So  joyfully  is  wont  to  shine. 
As  if  thy  bosom  could  not  dream 

Of  half  the  woe  that  preys  on  mine, 

I  do  not  murmur  that  another 

Hath  gained  the  love  I  could  not  wake ; 
I  look  on  him  as  on  a  brother, 

And  do  not  hate  him — for  thy  sake. 

And,  Mary,  when  I  gaze  on  thee, 

I  think  not  on  my  own  distress  ; 
Serene — in  thy  serenity. 

And  happy — in  thine  happiness. 


254:  EDWAIID   MORTON. 

HI. 

A  FLOWER,  in  IN'ature's  fairest  dress, 
Bloomed  on  its  parent  tree  ; 

Brightly  it  blushed  in  loveliness — ■ 
That  blush  was  not  for  me ! 

Oh  !  not  for  me,  right  well  I  knew ; 

And  yet  I  watched  it  where  it  grew, 
Fondly  and  fearfully ; 

And  often  from  my  heart  I  prayed 

That  gentle  Flower  might  never  fade. 

I  could  have  borne  to  see  it  bloom 

By  other  hands  caressed, 
Giving  its  blossoms  and  perfume 

To  deck  another's  breast ; 
And  when  that  Flower,  in  future  days, 
Had  met  my  melancholy  gaze, 

Still  living  and  still  blest, 
I  should  have  spoke  a  calmer  tone. 
And  made  its  happiness  my  own. 

But  thus  to  find  it  hurled  away 

By  him  to  whom  it  clung. 
To  watch  it  withering  day  by  day, 

So  beautiful  and  young  I 
To  see  it  dying,  yet  repress 
The  agony  of  tenderness 

That  lingers  on  the  tongue  ! — 


EDWAKD   MORTON.  255 

Alas  !  and  doth  it  come  to  this, 
Mary,  thy  cherished  dream  of  bliss  ! 

Gone  is  the  colonr  from  thy  cheek. 

The  lustre  from  thine  eye ; 
Thy  brow  is  cold,  thy  step  is  weak, 

Thy  beauty  passeth  by! 
In  ignorance  supremely  blest, 
Thy  child  is  slumbering  on  thy  breasu 

And  feels  not  "  she  will  die !" 
Alas  !  alas  ! — I  know  not  how 
I  speak  of  this  so  coldly  now  1 

I  love  to  muse -on  thee  by  night ! 

And,  while  my  bosom  aches, 
There  is  a  something  of  delight 

In  tliiuking  why  it  breaks  ;  , 

Therefore  doth  Reason  come  in  vain  ; 
I  dote  on  this  consuming  pain  ; 

Cling  to  the  wounds  it  makes  ; 
Talk — dream  of  it,  and  find  relief 
E'en  in  the  bittei'ness  of  grief. 

Where  are  ye  now,  ye  coldly  wise, 

Who  bid  the  passions  sleep, 
Who  scorn  the  mourner  when  he  sighs, 

And  call  it  crime  to  weep  ? 
Yours  is  the  lifelessness  of  life  ! — 
I  will  not  change  this  inward  strifo 


256  EDWAED  MOETON. 

For  all  your  precepts  deep, 
Nor  lose,  in  n:iy  departing  years, 
The  pain — the  bliss — the  throb  of  tears ! 

IV. 

I  SAW  thee  wedded — tlK)u  didst  go 

Within  the  sacred  aisle, 
Thy  young  cheek  in  a  blushing  glow 

Betwixt  a  tear  and  smile. 
Thy  heart  was  glad  in  maiden  glee, 
But  he  it  loved  so  fervently 

"Was  faithless  all  the  while ; 
I  hate  him  for  the  voav  he  spoke — 
I  hate  him  for  the  vow  he  broke. 

I  hid  the  love  that  could  not  die, 
,    Its  doubts,  and  hopes,  and  fears, 
And  baried  all  my  misery 

In  secrecy  and  tears ; 
And  days  passed  on,  and  thou  didst  prove 
The  pang  of  unrequited  love 

E'en  in  thine  early  years  ; 
And  thou  didst  die — so  fair  and  good — ■ 
In  silence,  and  in  solitude  ! 

While  thou  wert  living,  I  did  hide 

Affection's  secret  pains : 
I'd  not  have  shocked  thy  modest  pride 

For  all  the  world  contains  ; 


EDWAED   MOKTON.  25T 

But  thou  hast  perished,  and  the  fire 
That,  often  checked,  could  ne'er  expire, 

Again  unhidden  reigns : 
It  is  no  crime  to  speak  nij'  tow, 
For,  ah  !  thou  canst  not  hear  it  now. 

Thou  sleepest  'neath  thy  lowly  stone 

That  dark  and  dreamless  sleep  ; 
And  he,  thy  loved  and  chosen  one — 

Why  goes  he  not  to  weep  ? 
lie  does  not  kneel  where  I  have  knelt ; 
He  cannot  feel  what  I  have  felt. 

The  anguish  still  and  deep. 
The  painful  thoughts  of  what  has  been. 
The  canker-worm  that  is  not  seen  ! 

But  !■ — as  o'er  the  dark  blue  wave 

Unconsciously  I  ride, 
My  thoughts  are  hovering  o'er  thy  grave, 

My  soul  is  by  thy  side. 
There  is  one  voice  that  wails  thee  yet, 
One  heart  that  cannot  e'er  forget 

The  visions  that  have  died  ; 
And  aye  tliy  form  is  b\u"ied  tlicre- 
A  doubt — an  anguish — a  despair  ! 

(1820, 1821.) 

Vol.  II.-  17 


2o8  A  child's  geave. 


A  CHILD'S  GRAVE. 

O'ee  yon  Churchyard  the  storm  may  lower  • 
But,  heedless  of  the  wintry  air, 
One  little  bud  shall  Hnger  there, 

A  still  and  trembling  flower. 

Unscathed  by  long  revolving  years, 
Its  tender  leaves  shall  flourish  yet, 
And  sparkle  in  the  moonlight,  wet 

"With  the  pale  dew  of  tears. 

And  where  thine  humble  ashes  lie, 
Instead  of  'scutcheon  or  of  stone. 
It  rises  o'er  thee,  lonely  one. 

Child  of  obscurity ! 

Mild  was  thy  voice  as  Zephyr's  breath. 
Thy  cheek  with  flowing  locks  was  shaded ! 
But  the  voice  hath  died,  the  cheek  hath  faded 

In  the  cold  breeze  of  death  ! 

Brightly  thine  eye  was  smiling,  Sweet ! 

But  now  Decay  hath  stilled  its  glancing  ; 

Warmly  thy  little  heart  was  dancing, 
But  it  hath  ceased  to  beat ! 

A  few  short  months — and  thou  w  ert  here ! 

Hope  sat  upon  thy  youthful  brow  ; 

And  what  is  thy  memorial  now  ? 
A  flower — and  a  Tear. 


A   LETTEK   FKOM   ETON.  269 

A  LETTER  FROM  ETON. 

Mt  dearest  Cynthia, — 

If  you  knew 
Half  of  the  toil  P.  0,  goes  through, 
You'd  never  dip  your  spiteful  pen 
In  Anger's  bitter  ink  again, 
Because  the  hapless  author  woos 
No  correspondent — save  the  Muse. 

"Was  ever  such  a  wretched  elf? 
I  ha'n't  a  minute  to  myself! 
My  own  and  other  people's  cares 
Are  dinned  incessant  in  my  ears  ! 
I  can't  get  rid  of  Mr.  Vapour, 
"With  all  his  silly  "  midnight  taper," 
Nor  Mr.  Musgrave's  learned  paper, 

"  Diseases  of  the  Hoof;" 
E'en  now,  as  thus  I  sit  nie  down, 
Scared  by  your  thunder  and  your  frown, 

Two  Fiends  are  hid  aloof; 
Two  Fiends  in  dark  Cocytus  dipped ; 
A  Blockhead  with  a  manuscript. 

A  Devil  with  a  proof  1 
Alas!  alas!  I  seem  to  tind 
Some  torment  for  my  wearied  mind 


260  A   LETTER   FROM   ETON. 

In  every  tiling  I  see  ! 
My  duck  is  old — my  mutton  tougli, — 
To  some  they  may  be  good  enough, 

They  smell  of  "Press"  to  me  ; 
And  when  I  stoop  my  lips  to  drink, 
I  often  shudder  as  I  think 
I  taste  the  taste  of  Printer's  ink 

In  chocolate  and  tea ! 
And  what  with  friends,  and  foes,  and  hits 
Sent  slyly  out  by  little  wits, 

A  fulminating  breed ; 
And  what  with  Critics,  Queries,  Quarrels, 
Fame  and  fair  faces,  loves  and  laurels, 
Sermons  and  sonnets,  good  and  bad, 
I'm  getting — not  a  little  mad- 
But  very  mad  indeed ! 

But  you,  who  in  your  home  of  ease 
Are  far  from  sorrows  such  as  these, 
Maid  of  the  archly  smiling  brow. 
What  folly  are  you  following  now  ? 
"With  you,  amid  the  mazy  dance. 
That  came  to  us  from  clever  France, 
Does  he,  that  bright  and  brilliant  star. 
The  future  Tully  of  the  Bar, 
Its  present  Vestris,  glide? 
Or  does  he  quibble,  stride,  look  big, 
Assume  the  face  of  legal  prig, 
And  charm  you  with  his  embryo  wig, 


A   LETTER   FROM   ETON.  _  261 

In  all  its  powdered  pride? 
Is  lie  the  Coryphaeus  still 
Of  winding  Waltz,  and  gay  Quadrille 
And  is  he  talking  fooleries 
Of  Ladies'  love,  and  looks,  and  eyes, 

And  flirting  with  your  fan  ? 
Or  does  he  prate  of  whens  and  whys, 
Cross-questions,  queries,  and  replies, 
Cro.  Car. —  Gro.  Jac. — and  Cro.  Eliz., 

To  puzzle  ail  he  can  ? 
Is  he  the  favourite  of  to-day, 
Or  do  you  smile  with  kinder  ray 

On  hiui,  the  grave  Divine ; 
Whose  periods  sure  were  formed  alike 
In  pulpit  to  amaze  and  strike. 

In  drawing-room  to  shine  ? 
Alas !  alas !  methinks  I  see, 
Amid  those  walks  of  revelry, 

A  dignitary's  fall ; 
For.  lingering  long  in  fashion's  scene, 
He'll  die  a  dancer,  not  a  dean. 
And  find  it  hard  to  choose  between 

■Preferment — and  a  ball ! 

I  do  not  bid  thee  weep,  my  dear, 
I  would  not  see  a  single  tear 
In  eyes  so  bright  as  those; 
Is'or  dim  the  ray  that  love  hath  lit, 
Nor  check  the  stream  of  mirth  and  wit 


262      THE   DEATH    OF   A   SOHOOLFELLOW. 

That  sparkles  as  it  flows. 
Be  still  the  Fairy  of  the  dance, 
And  keep  that  light  and  merry  glance, 
Yet  do  not,  in  your  pride  of  place, 
Forget  your  parted  lover's  face, 

A  poor  one  though  it  be ! 
Among  the  thousands  that  adore, 
Believe  not  one  can  love  you  more ; 
And  when,  retired  from  ball  and  rout, 
You've  nothing  else  to  think  about, — 

"Why,  waste  a  thought  on  me  I 

(June  25, 1821.) 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  SCHOOL- 
FELLOW. 

TRANSLATED   FROM   SOME     LATIN   VERSES    BY    THi 
R^V.  E.  C.  HAWTREY. 

Snatched  from  us  in  thy  sinless  years, 
To  thee  we  bid  the  lament  flow. 

And  swell  with  unavailing  tears 
A  brother's  and  a  parent's  woe.  ■ 


THE   DEATH   OF   A    SCHOOLFELLOW.       263 

'Tis  sweet,  poor  Boy  I  and  yet  'tis  pain, 
Thougli  life  and  hope  ave  fled,  e'eu  nov 

To  cling  with  rapture,  long  and  vain, 
Upon  thy  moistened  cheek  and  brow ; 

Until  we  fancy  that  a  gleam 

Again  hath  lit  that  glazing  eye. 
And  call  upon  thy  lips,  and  dream 

We  hear  those  lifeless  lips  reply. 

Yet,  while  the  words  are  on  my  tougue. 
Corruption  awes  me !  and  aside 

I  shrink  from  that  to  which  I  clung. 
And  feel  what  love  would  wish  to  hide 

And,  while  thy  cold  remains  we.lay 
To  sleep  beneath  their  colder  stone, 

I  turn  me  from  the  frame's  decay, 

To  muse  on  that  which  knoweth  none. 

Unhurt,  undying,  undecayed, 

Thy  soul  exists  beyond  the  tomb  ! 

And,  while  I  wander  down  the  glade, 
Whose  beauties  now  are  wrapt  in  gloou: 

Thy  spirit  comes  at  evening's  hour. 
And  thus  it  says,  or  seems  to  say  : 

"Lament  not,  though  the  cherished  flower 
Hath  bloomed  and  faded  in  a  day ; 


264  SONJS^ET. 

"  And  let  not  them  tliat  gave  me  birth, 
And  let  not  her  that  closed  my  eyes, 

Weep  o'er  me  in  my  bed  of  earth, 
Or  sorrow  at  my  obsequies! 

"  The  rays  of  Heaven  aronnd  me  shine, — 
Why  suoidd  they  pine  in  earthly  care-?  ? 

Eternity  of  bliss  is  mine, — 

Why  should  a  moment's  pang  be  theirs?" 

(1S21.) 


SONNET. 


If  when  with  thee  I  feel  and  speak 

What  not  with  others  I  have  felt  and  spoken, 

It  is  not  for  the  beauty  of  thy  cheek, 

For  for  thy  forehead  fail-, 

N"or  for  the  dark  locks  quietly  sleeping  there, 

Nor  for  thy   words  of  kindness.    Friendship's 

token ; 
But  rather,  that  I  trace 
Passion  and  purity  in  that  meaning  face  ; 
And  that  thy  brow  is  stamped  with  feeling 
Such  as  mocks  the  tongue's  revealing. 
And  that  I  see  in  thy  young  soul 
A  breathing  part  of  that  celestial  Whole, 
And  that  thou  art  a  Poet,  and  the  son 
Of  an  Immortal  one  ! 

(Cajibkidge,  December,  IS'21.) 


PEIZE  POEMS,  TE.U^SLATIOXS 
EPIGRAMS. 


AUSTRALASIA.* 

The  sun  is  kigh  in  heaven ;  a  favouring  breeze 
Fills  the  white   sail,  and   sweeps   the  rippling 

seas, 
And  the  tall  vessel  walks  her  destined  way, 
And  rocks  and  glitters  in  the  curling  spray. 
Among  the  shrouds,  all  happiness  and  hope, 
The  busy  seaman  coils  the  rattling  rope, 
And  tells  his  jest,  and  carols  out  his  song, 
And  laughs  his  laughter,  vehement  and  long ; 
Or  pauses  on  the  deck,  to  dream  awhile 
Of  his  babes'  prattle,  and  their  mother's  smile. 
And  nods  the  head,  and  waves  the  welcome  hand, 
To  those  who  weep  upon  the  lessening  strand. 

His  is  the  roving  step  and  humour  dry. 
His  the  light  laugh,  and  his  the  jocund  eye ; 
And  his  the  feeling,  which,  in  guilt  or  grief, 
Makes  the  sin  venial,  and  the  sorrow  brief. 
But  there  are  hearts,  that  merry  deck  below, 
Of  darker  error,  and  of  deeper  woe, — 
Cliildren  of  wrath  and  wretchedness,  who  grieve 
Not  for  the  country,  but  the  crimes  they  leave,— 

*  This  poem  obtained  tlie  Ciianccllor's  Medal  ^t  tlie  C«m- 
liikigo  Cominencemunt,  July,  1S2.3. 


238  AUSTRALASIA. 

Who,  while  for  them,  on  many  a  sleepless  bed, 
The  prayei"  is  murmured,  and  tlie  tear  is  shed, 
In  exile  and  in  misery,  lock  within 
Their  dread  despair,  their  unrepented  sin, — 
And  in  their  madness  dare  to  gaze  on  heaven, 
Sullen  and  cold,  uuawed  and  unforgiven  ! 

There  the  gaunt  robber,  stern  in  sin  and  shame, 
Shows  his  dull  features  and  his  iron  frame  ; 
And  tenderer  pilferers  creep  in  silence  by, 
With  quivering  lip,  flushed  brow,  and  vacant  eye. 
And  some  there  are  who,  in  their  close  of  day, 
With  dropping  jaw,  weak  step,  and  temples  gray. 
Go  tottering  forth  to  find,  across  the  wave, 
A  short  sad  sojourn,  and  a  foreign  grave; 
And  some  who  look  their  long  and  last  adieu 
To  the  white  cliffs  that  vanish  from  the  view. 
While  youth  still  blooms,  and  vigour  nerves  the 

arm, 
The  blood  flows  freely,  and  ihe  pulse  beats  warm. 
The  hapless  female  stands  in  silence  there. 
So  weak,  so  wan,  and  yet  so  sadly  fair, 
That  those  who  gaze — a  rude,  untutored  tribe — 
Check  the  coarse  question,  and  the  wounding 

gibe. 
And  look,  and  long  to  strike  the  fetter  off, 
And  stay  to  pity,  though  they  came  to  scoff. 
Then  o'er  her  cheek  there  rung  a  burning  blush, 
And  the  hot  tears  of  shame  begin  to  rush 


ACSTEALASIA.  2G9 

Forth  from  their  swelling  orbs ; — she  turns  away, 
And  her  white  lingers  o'er  her  eyelids  stray, 
And  still  the  tears  through  those  white  fingers 

glide, 
Which  strive  to  check  them,  or  at  least  to  hide! 

And  there  the  stripling,  led  to  plunder's  scliool 
Ere  passion  slept,  or  reason  learned  to  rule, 
Clasps  his  young  hands,  and  beats  his  throbbing 

brain, 
And  looks  with  marvel  on  his  galling  chain. 
Oh !  you  may  guess,  from  that  unconscious  gaze, 
Ilis  soul  hath  dreamed  of  those  far  fading  days. 
When,  rudely  nurtured  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
lie  tended  day  by  day  his  father's  plough ; 
Blest  in  his  day  of  toil,  his  night  of  case. 
His  life  of  purity,  his  soul  of  peace. 
Oh,  yes !  to-day  his  soul  hath  backward  been 
To  many  a  tender  face,  and  beauteous  scene  ; 
The  verdant  valley  and  the  dark-brown  hill. 
The  small  fair  garden,  and  its  tinkling  rill, 
His  grandame's  tale,  believed  at  twilight  hour, 
His  sister  singing  in  her  myrtle  bower, 
xind  she,  the  maid,  of  every  hope  bereft. 
So  fondly  loved,  alas !  so  falsely  left ; 
The  winding  path,  the  dwelling  in  the  grove, 
•The  look  of  welcome,  and  the  kiss  of  love — 
Tliese  are  las  dreams ; — but  these  are  dreams  of 

bliss  I 
Whv  do  thev  blend  with  such  a  lot  as  his? 


2    0  ArSTEALASlA. 

A  nd  is  there  naught  for  him  but  grief  and  gloom, 
A  lone  existence,  and  an  early  tomb  ? 
Is  there  no  hope  of  comfort  and  of  rest 
To  the  seared  conscience,  and  the  troubkd  breast? 
Oh,  say  not  so !     In  some  far  distant  clime, 
Where  lives  no  witness  of  his  early  ci'ime. 
Benignant  Penitence  may  haply  muse 
On  purer  pleasures,  and  on  brighter  views, 
And  slumbering  Virtue  wake  at  last  to  claim 
Another  being  and  a  fairer  fame. 

Beautiful  land !  within  whose  quiet  shore 
Lost  spirits  may  forget  the  stain  they  bore : 
Beautiful  land !  with  all  thy  blended  shades 
Of  waste  and  wood,  rude  rocks  and  level  glades, 
On  thee,  on  thee  I  gaze,  as  Moslems  look 
To  the  blest  islands  of  their  prophet's  book ; 
And  oft  I  deem  that,  linked  by  magic  spell, 
Pardon  and  peace  upon  thy  valleys  dwell. 
Like  to  sweet  houris  beckoning  o'er  the  deep 
The  souls  that  tremble  and  the  eyes  that  weep. 
Therefore  on  thee  undying  sunbeams  throw 
Their  clearest  radiance,  and  their  warmest  glow ; 
And    tranquil    nights,   cool    gales,   and    gentle 

showers 
Make  bloom  eternal  in  thy  sinless  bowers. 
Green  is  thy  turf;  stern  Winter  doth  not  dare 
To  breathe  his  blast,  and  leave  a  ruin  there, 
And  the  charmed  ocean  roams  thy  i-ocks  around, 


AUSTRALASIA.  371 

Willi  softer  motion,  and  witli  sweeter  sound : 
Among  thy  blooming  flowers  find  blushing  fruit 
The  whispering  of  young  birds  is  never  mute, 
And  never  doth  the  streamlet  cease  to  well 
Through  its  old  channel  in  the  hidden  dell. 
Oh !  if  the  Muse  of  Greece  had  ever  strayed, 
In  solemn  twiliglit,  through  thy  forest  shade, 
And  swept   her  lyre,   and    waked    thy   meads 

along 
The  limpid  echo  of  her  ancient  song, 
Her  fabling  Fancy  in  that  hour  had  found 
Voices  of  music,  shapes  of  grace,  around ; 
Among  thy  trees,  with  mevry  step  and  glance, 
The  Dryad  then  had  wound  her  wayward  dance, 
And  the  cold  Naiad  in  thy  waters  fair 
Bathed  her  white  breast,  and  wrung  her  dripping 

hair. 

Beautiful  land !  upon  so  pure  a  plain 
Shall  Superstition  hold  her  hated  reign  ? 
Must  Bigotry  build  up  her  cheerless  shrine 
In  such  an  air,  on  such  an  earth  as  thine? 
Alas !  Eeligion  from  thy  placid  isles 
Veils  the  warm  splendour  of  her  heavenly  smiles, 
And  the  rapt  gazer  in  the  beauteous  plan 
Sees  nothing  dark  except  the  soul  of  Man. 

Sweet  are  the  links  that  bind  us  to  our  kind, 
Meek,  but  unyielding,— felt,  but  undefined ; 


272  AUSTRALASIA. 

Sweet  is  the  love  of  brethren,  sweet  tlie  joy 
Of  a  young  mother  in  her  cradled  toy, 
And  sweet  is  childhood's  deep  and  earnest  glow 
Of  reverence  for  a  father's  head  of  snow  ! 
Sweeter  than  all,  ere  our  young  hopes  depart, 
The  quickening  throb  of  an  impassioned  heart, 
Beating  in  silence,  eloquently  still, 
For  one  loved  soul  that  answers  to  its  thrill. 
But  where  thy  smile.  Religion,  hatli  not  shone, 
The  chain  is  riven,  and  the  charm  is  gone, 
And,  uuawakened  by  thy  wondrous  spell. 
The  feelings  slumber  in  their  silent  cell. 

Hushed  is  the  voice  of  labour  and  of  mirth, 
The  light  of  day  is  sinking  from  the  earth. 
And  Evening  mantles  in  her  dewy  calm 
The  couch  of  one  who  cannot  heed  its  balm.* 
Lo !  where  the  chieftain  on  his  matted  bed 
Leans  the  faint  form,  and  hangs  the  feverish  head  ; 
There  is  no  lustre  in  his  wandering  eye, 
ITis  forehead  hath  no  show  of  majesty. 
His  gasping  lip,  too  weak  for  wail  or  prayer, 
Scarce  stirs  the  breeze,  and  leaves  no  echo  thore, 

*  This  sketch  of  the  death  ot'a  New  Zo.ihmJer,  and  of  the  super- 
stition which  prevents  the  offering  of  any  consolation  or  assist- 
ance, under  the  idea  that  a  sick  man  Is  under  the  immediate- 
influence  of  the  Deity,  is  taken  from  the  narrative  of  the  doath 
of  Du»terr.i,  a  friendly  chieftain,  recorded  by  Mr.  Nicholas,  vol. 
ii.  p.  181 


AUSTRALASIA,  2Y3 

And  his  strong  arm,  so  nobly  wont  to  rear 
The  feathered  target,  or  the  ashen  spear, 
Drops  powerless  and  cold !  the  pang  of  death 
Locks  the  set  teeth,  and  chokes  the  struggling 

breath ; 
And  the  last  glimmering  of  departing  day 
Lingers  around  to  herald  life  away. 

Is  there  no  duteous  youth  to  sprinkle  now 
One  drop  of  water  on  his  lip  and  brow  ? 
No  dark-eyed  maid,  to  bring  with  soundles6  foot 
The  lulling  potion,  or  the  healing  root? 
No  tender  look  to  meet  his  wandering  gaze  ? 
No  tone  of  fondness,  heard  in  happier  days, 
To  soothe  the  terrors  of  the  spirit's  flight, 
And  speak  of  mercy  and  of  hope  to-night  ? 
All  love,  all  leave  him ! — terrible  and  slow 
Along  the  crowd  the  whispered  murmurs  grow : 
"  The  hand  of  Heaven  is  on  him !  is  it  ours 
"  To  check  the  fleeting  of  his  numbered  hours  ? 
"  Oh,  not  to  us, — oh,  not  to  us  is  given 
"  To   read   the  book,   or  thwart  the  will,  of 

Heaven ! 
"Away,  away!"  and  each  familiar  fiice 
Recoils  in  horror  from  his  sad  embrace ; 
The  turf  on  which  he  lies  is  hallowed  ground. 
The  sullen  priest  stalks  gloomily  around, 
And  shuddering  friends,  that  dare  not  soothe  or 

save. 
Vol.  IL— 18 


274  AUSTRALASIA. 

Hear  the  last  groan,  and  dig  the  destined  grave. 
The  frantic  widow  folds  upon  her  breast 
Her  glittering  trinkets  and  her  gorgeous  vest, 
Circles  her  neck  with  many  a  mystic  charm, 
Clasps  the  rich  bracelet  on  her  desperate  arm, 
Binds  her   black  hair,  and    stains  her  eyelid's 

fringe 
With  the  jet  lustre  of  the  Henow's  tinge ; 
Then  on  the  spot  where  those  dear  ashes  lie, 
In  bigot  transport  sits  her  down  to  die. 
Her  swarthy  brothers  mark  the  wasted  cheek, 
The  straining  eyeball,  and  the  stifled  shriek, 
And  sing  the  praises  of  her  deathless  name, 
As  the  last  flutter  racks  her  tortured  frame. 
They  sleep  together :  o'er  the  natural  tomb 
The  lichened  pine  rears  up  its  form  of  gloom, 
And  lorn  acacias  shed  their  shadow  gray, 
Bloomless  and  leafless,  o'er  the  buried  clay. 
And  often  there,  when,  calmly,  coldly  bright. 
The   midnight   moon  flings   down  her  ghastly 

light, 
With  solemn  murmur,  and  with  silent  tread. 
The  dance  is  ordered,  and  the  verse  is  said. 
And  sights  of  wonder,  sounds  of  spectral  fear, 
Scare  the  quick  glance,  and  chill  the  startled  ear. 
Yet  direr  visions  e'en  than  these  remain  ; 
A  fiercer  guiltiness,  a  fouler  stain ! 
Oh !  who  shall  sing  the  scene  of  savage  strife, 
Where  Hatred  glories  in  the  waste  of  life? 


AUSTRALASIA.  275 

The  hurried  inarch,  the  looks  of  grim  delight, 

The  yell,  the  rush,  the  slaughter,  and  the  flight 

The  arras  unwearied  in  the  cruel  toil, 

The  hoarded  vengeance  and  the  rifled  spoil; 

And,  last  of  all,  the  revel  in  the  wood, 

The  feast  of  death,  the  banqueting  of  blood, 

When  the  wild  warrior  gazes  on  his  foe, 

Convulsed  beneath  him  in  his  painful  throe, 

And  lifts  the  knife,  and  kneels  him  down  to 

drain 
The  purple  current  from  the  quiv'ring  vein? — 
Cease,  cease  the  tale ;  and  let  the  ocean's  roll 
Shut  tlie  dark  liorror  from  my  wildered  soul! 

And  are  there  none  to  succour?  none  to  speed 
A  fairer  feeling  and  a  holier  creed  ? 
Alas!  for  this,  upon  the  ocean  blue, 
Lamented  Cook,  thy  pennon  hither  flew; 
For^  this,  undaunted,  o'er  the  raging  brine. 
The  venturous  Frank  upheld  his  Saviour's  sign. 
Unhappy  chief!  while  Fancy  thus  surveys 
The  scattered  islets,  and  the  sparkling  bays. 
Beneath  whose  cloudless  sky  and  gorgeous  sun 
Thy  life  was  ended,  and  thy  voyage  done, 
In  shadowy  mist  thy  form  appears  to  glide, 
Haunting  the  grove,  or  floating  on  the  tide; 
Oh!  there  was  grief  for  thee,  and  bitter  tears, 

*  From  the  coast  of  Australasia  the  last  dispatches  of  La 
Peyrouse  were  dated.    Vid.  Quarterly  Review,  for  Feb.  ISIO 


276  AUSTEALASIA. 

And  racking  doubts  througli  long  and  joyless 

years ; 
And  tender  tongues  that  babbled  of  the  theme, 
And  lonely  hearts  that  doted  on  the  dream. 
Pale  Memory  deemed  she  saw  thy  cherished 

form 
Snatched  from   the  foe,  or   rescued   from   the 

storm ; 
And  faithful  Love,  unfailing  and  untired, 
Clung  to  each  hope,  and  sighed  as  each  expired. 
On  the  bleak  desert,  on  the  tombless  sea, 
Ko  prayer  was  said,  no  requiem  sung  for  thee  ; 
Affection  knows  not,  whether  o'er  thy  grave 
The  ocean  murmur,  or  the  willow  wave ; 
But  still  the  beacon  of  thy  sacred  name 
Lights  ardent  souls  to  Virtue  and  to  Fame; 
Still  Science  mourns  thee,  and  the  grateful  Muse 
"Wreathes  the  green  cypress  for  her  own  Pey- 

rouse. 

But  not  thy  death  shall  mar  the  gracious  plan, 
Nor  check  the  task  thy  pious  toil  began ; 
O'er  the  wide  waters  of  the  bounding  main 
The  Book  of  Life  must  win  its  way  again, 
And  in  the  regions  by  thy  fate  endeared, 
The  Cross  be  lifted,  and  the  Altar  reared. 

TVith  furrowed  brow  and  cheek  serenely  fair, 
The  calm  wind  wandering  o'er  his  silver  hair, 
His  arm  uplifted,  and  his  moistened  eye 


AU8TKALASIA.  277 

Fixed  in  deep  rapture  on  the  golden  sky, — 
Upon  the  shore,  through  many  a  billow  driven, 
He  kneels  at  last,  the  Messenger  of  Heaven  ! 
Long  years,  that  rank  the  mighty  with  the  weak, 
Have  dimmed  the  flush  upon  his  faded  cheek. 
And  many  a  dew,  and  many  a  noxious  damp, 
Tlie  daily  labour,  and  the  nightly  lamp, 
Have  reft  away,  forever  reft,  from  him, 
The  liquid  accent,  and  the  buoyant  limb. 
Yet  still  within  him  aspirations  swell, 
"Which  time  corrupts  not,  sorrow  cannot  quell : 
The  changeless  Zeal,  which  on,  from  land    to 

land. 
Speeds  the  faint  foot,  and  nerves  the  withered 

hand. 
And  the  mild  Chanty,  which  day  by  day 
Weeps  every  wound  and  every  stain  away, 
Eears  the  young  bud  on  every  blighted  stem. 
And  longs  to  comfort  where  she  must  condemn. 
With  these,  through  storms,  and  bitterness,  and 

wrath. 
In  peace  and  power  he  holds  his  onward  path, 
Curbs  the  fierce  soul,  and  sheathes  the  raurd'rous 

steel, 
And  calms  the  passions  he  hath  ceased  to  feel. 

Yes !  he  hath  triumphed ! — while  his  lips  relate 
The  sacred  story  of  his  Saviour's  fate. 
While  to  the  search  of  that  tumultuous  horde 
He  opens  wide  the  Everlasting  Word, 


278  AUSTRALASIA. 

And  bids  the  soul  drink  deep  of  wisdom  there, 
In  fond  devotion,  and  in  fervent  prayer, 
In  speechless  awe  the  wonder-stricken  throng 
Check  their  rude  feasting  and  their  barbarous 

song : 
Around  his  steps  the  gathering  myriads  crowd, 
The  chief,  the  slave,  the  timid,  and  the  proud ; 
Of  various  features,  and  of  various  dress, 
Like  their  own  forest-leaves,  confused  and  num- 
berless. 
"Where  shall  your  temples,  where  your  woiship 

be, 
Gods  of  the  air,  and  Rulers  of  the  sea? 
In  the  glad  dawning  of  a  kinder  light, 
Your  blind  adorer  quits  your  gloomy  rite. 
And  kneels  in  gladness  on  his  native  plain, 
A  happier  votary  at  a  holier  fane. 

Beautiful  Land,  farewell ! — when  toil  and  strife 
And  all  the  sighs,  and  all  the  sins  of  life, 
Shall  come  about  me,  when  the  light  of  Trutii 
Shall  scatter  the  briglit  mists  that  dazzled  youth, 
And  Memory  muse  in  sadness  on  tile  past, 
And  mourn  for  pleasure  far  too  sweet  to  last ; 
How  often  shall  I  long  for  some  green  spot. 
Where,  not  remembering,  and  remembered  not, 
"With  no  false  verse  to  deck  my  lying  bust, 
"With  no  fond  tear  to  vex  my  mould'ring  dust, 
This  busy  brain  may  find  its  grassy  shrine, 
And  sleep  untroubled  in  a  shade  like  thine ! 


ATHENS.  270 


ATHEXS* 

"Hijrh  towei-s,  fairo  temples,  goodly  theaters. 
Strong  walls,  rich  porches,  princelie  pallaces. 
Large  streetes,  brave  houses,  sacred  Bepulchers, 
Sure  gates,  sweete  gardens,  stately  galleries, 
AVrought  with  fair  pillonrs  and  fine  imageries, — 
All  those  (O  pitie !)  now  are  turned  to  dust, 
And  overgrowne  with  black  oblivion's  rust." 

Spknser,  The  liuines  of  Time. 

Muse  of  old  Athexs  !  strike  thine  ancient  lute  ! 
Are  the  strings  broken?  is  the  mnsic  ninte  ? 
Hast  thou  no  tears  to  gush,  no  prayers  to  flow, 
Wails  for  her  fate,  or  curses  for  her  foe  ? 
If  still,  witliin  some  dark  and  drear  recess, 
Clothed  witli  sad  pomp  and  spectral  loveliness. 
Though  pale  thy  cheek,  and  torn  thy  flowing 

hair, 
And  reft  the  roses  passion  worshipped  there, 
Thou  lingerest,  h)ne,  beneath  thy  laurel  bougli, 
(ilad  in  the  incense  of  a  poet's  vow. 
Bear  me,  oh,  bear  me,  to  the  vine-clad  hill, 
Wliere  iRature  smiles,  and  Beauty  blushes  still, 
xVnd  Memory  blends  her  tale  of  other  years 
With  earnest  hopes,  deep  siglis,  and  bitter  tears! 

*  This  Poem  obtained  the  Chancellor's  Medal  at  the  Caiiv 
^iiidge  Commencement,  July,  1821. 


330  ATHENS. 

Desolate  Athens !  though  tliy  gods  are  fled. 
Thy  temples  silent,  and  thy  glory  dead, 
Though  all  thou  hadst  of  beautiful  and  brave 
Sleep  in  the  tomb,  or  moulder  iu  the  wave, 
Though   power   and   praise    forsake   thee    and 

forget, 
Desolate  Athens,  thou  art  lovely  yet ! 
Around  thy  walls,  in  every  wood  and  vale. 
Thine  own  sweet  bird,  the  lonely  nightingale. 
Still  makes  her  home  :  and  when  the  moonlight 

hour 
Flings  its  soft  magic  over  brake  and  bower. 
Murmurs  her  sorrows  from  her  ivy  shrine, 
Or  the  thick  foliage  of  the  deathless  vine. 
Where  erst  Megggra  chose  her  fearful  crown, 
The  bright  narcissus  hangs  his  clusters  down  ; 
And  the  gay  croc  as  decks  with  glittering  dew 
The  yellow  radiance  of  his  golden  hue. 
Still  thine  own  olive  haunts  its  native  earth, 
Green  as  when  Pallas  smiled  upon  its  birth  ; 
And  still  Cephisus  pours  his  sleepless  tide, 
So  clear  and  calm,  along  the  meadow  side, 
That  you  may  gaze  long  hours  upon  the  stream, 
iVnd  dream  at  last  the  poet's  witching  dream. 
That  the  sweet  Muses,in  the  neighbouring  bowers, 
Sweep  their  wild  harps,  and  wreathe  their  odor- 
ous flowers. 
And  laughing  Venus  o'er  the  level  plains 
"Waves  her  light  lash,  and  shakes  her  gilded  reins. 


ATHENS.  281 

How  terrible  is  Time !  his  solemn  years, 
The  tombs  of  all  our  hopes  and  all  our  fears, 
In  silent  horror  roll ! — the.  gorgeous  throne, 
The  pillared  arch,  the  monumental  stone, 
3felt  in  swift  ruin;  and  of  mighty  climes, 
Where  Fame  told  tales  of  virtues  and  of  ci-imes, 
"Where  Wisdom  tauglit,and  Valour  woke  to  strife, 
And  Art's  creations  breathed  their  mimic  life. 
And  the  young  Poet,  when  the  stars  shone  high. 
Drank  the  deep  rapture  of  the  quiet  sky, 
Kaught  now  remains,  but  Js'ature's  placid  scene. 
Heaven's  deathless  blue,  and    Earth's    eternal 

green. 
The  showers  that  fall  on  palaces  and  graves. 
The  suns  that  shine  for  freemen  and  for  slaves : 
Science  may  sleep  in  ruin,  man  in  shame. 
But  nature  lives,  still  lovely,  still  the  same  ! 
The  rock,  the  river, — these  have  no  decay  ! 
The  city  and  its  masters, — where  are  they  ? 
Go  forth,  and  wander  through  the  cold  remains 
Of  fallen  statues,  ♦nd  of  tottering  fanes. 
Seek  the  loved  hanuts  of  poet  and  of  sage, 
The  gay  palajstra,  and  the  gaudy  stage ! 
Wliat  signs  are  there  ?  a  solitary  stone, 
A  shattered  capital  with  grass  o'ergrown, 
A  mouldering  frieze,  half  hid  in  ancient  dust, 
A  thistle  springing  o'er  a  nameless  bust ; — 
Vet  this  was  Athens !  still  a  holy  spell 
Breuthes  in  the  dome,  and  wanders  in  the  dell. 


282  ATHENS. 

And  vanished  times  and  -wondrous  forms  appear, 

And  sudden  echoes  charm  the  waking  ear: 

Decay  itself  is  dressed  in  glory's  gloom, 

For  ever}-  hillock  is  a  hero's  tomh, 

And  every  breeze  to  fancy's  slumber  brings 

The  mighty  rushing  of  a  spirit's  wings. 

Oh,  yes !  where  glory  such  as  thine  hath  been, 

Wisdom  and'  Sorrow  linger  round  the  scene  ; 

And  where  the  hues  of  faded  splendour  sleep, 

Age  kneels  to  moralize,  and  youth  to  weep  ! 

E'en  now,  methinks,  before  the  eye  of  day, 
The  night  of  ages  rolls  its  mist  away. 
And  the  cold  dead,  the  wise,  and  fair,  and  proud. 
Start  from  the  urn,  and  rend  the  tranquil  shroud. 
Here  the  w^ild  Muse  hath  seized  her  maddening 

lyre. 
With  grasp  of  passion,  and  with  glance  of  fire, 
And  called  the  visions  of  her  awful  reign 
From  death  and  gloom,  to  light  and  life  again. 
Hark !  the  huge  Titan  on  his  ^-ozen  rock 
Scoffs  at  Heaven's  Kilig,  and  braves  the  lightning- 
shock, 
The  Colchian  sorceress  drains  her  last  brief  bliss, 
The  thrilling  rapture  of  a  mother's  kiss. 
And  the  gay  Theban  raises  to  the  skies 
His  hueless  features,  and  his  rayless  eyes. 
There  blue-eyed  Pallas  guides  the  willing  feet 
Of  her  loved  sages  to  her  calm  retreat, 


ATHEN3.  283 

And  lights  the  radiance  of  her  glittering  torch 
In  the  rich  garden  and  tlie  quiet  ])oreh  : 
Lo!  the  thronged  arches,  and  the  nodding  trees, 
Where  Truth  and  Wisdom  strayed  witli  Socrates, 
Wliere    round  sweet   Xenophon   rapt   myriads 

hung. 
And  liquid  honey  dropped  from  Plato's  tongue  ! 
Oh !  thou  wert   glorious  then !    thy   sway  and 

sword 
On  earth  and  sea  were  dreaded  and  adored., 
And  Satraps  knelt,  and  Sovereigns  tribute  paid, 
And  prostrate  cities  trembled  and  obeyed : 
The  grim  Laconian,  when  he  saw  thee,  sighed, 
And  frowned  the  venom  of  his  hate  and  pride  ; 
And  the  pale  Persian  dismal  vigils  kept, 
If  Eumor  whispered  "  Athens!"  where  he  slept ; 
And  mighty  Ocean,  for  thy  royal  sail. 
Hushed  the  loud  wave,and  stilled  the  stormy  gale ; 
And  to  thy  sons  Olympian  Jove  had  given 
A  brighter  ether,  and  a  purer  heaven. 
Those  sons  of  thine  were  not  a  mingled  host, 
From  various  fathers  born,  from  every  coast. 
And  driven  from  shore  to  shore,  from  toil  to  toil, 
To  shun  a  despot,  or  to  seek  a  spoil; 
Oh,  no !  they  drew  their  unpolluted  race 
Up  from  the  earth  which  was  their  dwelling- 
place. 
And  the  warm  blood,  whose  blushing  streams 
]iad  run 


284  ATHENS. 

Ceaseless  and  stainless,  down,  from  sire  to  son, 
Went  clear  and  brilliant  through  its  hundred  rills, 
Pure  as  thy  breeze,  eternal  as  thy  hills  I 

Alas!  how  soon  that  day  of  splendour  passed, 
That  bright,  brief  day,  too  beautiful  to  last ! 
Let  other  lips  tell  o'er  the  oft-told  tale ; — 
How  art  succeeds,  when  spear  and  falchion  fail ; 
How  fierce  dissension,  impotent  distrust, 
Caprice  that  made  it  treason  to  be  just, 
And  crime  in  some,  and  listlessness  in  all, 
Sliook  the  great  city  to  her  fate  and  fall, 
Till  gold  at  last  made  plain  the  tyrant's  way, 
And  bent  all  hearts  in  bondage  and  decay ! 
I  loathe  the  task !  let  other  lyres  record 
The  might  and  mercy  of  the  Eoman  sword. 
The  aimless  struggle,  and  the  fruitless  wdle, 
The  victor's  vengeance,  and  the  patron's  smile. 
Yet,  in  the  gloom  of  that  long,  cheerless  night, 
There  gleams  one  ray  to  comf(jrt  and  delight ; 
One  spot  of  rapture  courts  tlie  Muse's  eye. 
In  the  dull  waste  of  shame  and  apathy. 
Here,  where  wild  Fancy  wondrous  fictions  drew, 
And  knelt  to  worship,  till   she  thought  them 

true, — ■ 
Here,  in  the  paths  which  beauteous  Error  trod, 
The  great  Apostle  preached  the  Unknown  God! 

Silent  the  crowd  were  hushed;  for  his  the  eye 
Which  power  controls  not,  sin  cannot  defy  ; 


ATHKNS.  285 

His  the  tall  stature,  and  the  lifted  hand, 

And  the  fixed  countenance  of  grave  coimnand  ; 

And  his  the  voice,  which,  heard  hut  once,  will 

sink 
So  deep  into  the  hearts  of  those  that  think. 
That  they  may  live  till  years  and  years  are  gone. 
And  never  lose  one  echo  of  its  tone. 
Yet,  when  the  voice  had  ceased,  a  clamour  rose, 
And  mingled  tumult  rang  from  friends  and  foes; 
The  threat  was  muttered,  and  the  galling  gibe, 
By  each  pale  Sophist  and  his  paltry  tribe  ; 
The  haughty  Stoic  passed  in  gloomy  state, 
Tiie  heartless  Cynic  scowled  his  grovelling  hate, 
And  the  soft  garden's  rose-encircled  child 
Smiled  unbelief,  and  shuddered  as  he  smiled. — ■ 
Tranquil  he  stood ;    for  he  had  heard, — could 

hear, 
Blame  and  reproach  with  an  untroubled  ear  ; 
O'er  his  broad  forehead  visibly  were  wrought 
The  dark  deep  lines  of  courage  and  of  thought ; 
And  if  the  colour  from  his  cheek  was  tied, 
Its  paleness  spoke  no  passion, — and  no  dread. 
The  meek  endurance,  and  the  steadfast  wUl, 
The  patient  nerve  that  suffers,  and  is  still, 
The  humble  faith,  that  bends  to  meet  the  rod, 
And  the  strong  hope,  that  turns  from  man  tc 

God,— 
All  these  were  his ;  and  his  firm  heart  was  set, 
And  knew  the  hour  must  come, — but  was  not  yet. 


286  ATHEISMS. 

Again  long  years  of  darkness  and  of  pain, 
The  Moslem  scymitar,  the  Moslem  chain  ; 
TThere   Phidias   toiled,    the   turbaned    spoilers 

brood, 
And  the  Mosque  glitters  where  the  Temple  stood. 
Alas !  how  well  the  slaves  their  fetters  wear. 
Proud  in  disgi-ace,  and  cheerful  in  despair ! 
While  the  glad  music  of  the  boatman's  song 
On  the  still  air  floats  happily  along. 
The  light  caique  goes  bounding  on  its  way 
Through  the  bright  ripples  of  Pirseus'  bay ; 
And  when  the  stars  shine  down,  and  twinkling 

feet 
In  the  gay  measure  blithely  part  and  meet. 
The   dark-eyed     maiden   scatters   through    the 

grove 
Her  tones  of  fondness,  and  her  looks  of  love  : 
Oh,   sweet   the  lute,    the  dance !  but  bondage 

flings 
Grief  on  the  steps,  and  discord  on  the  strings ; 
Yet,  thus  degraded,  sunken  as  thou  art, 
Still  thou  art  dear  to  many  a  boyish  heart ; 
And  many  a  poet,  full  of  fervour,  goes. 
To  read  deep  lessons,  Athens,  in  thy  woes. 
And  such  Was  he,  the  long-lamented  one, 
England's  fair  hope,  sad  Granta's  cherished  son, 
Ill-fated  Twkddell! — If  the  flush  of  youth. 
The  light  of  genius,  and  the  glow  of  truth, 
If  all  that  fondness  honours  and  adores. 


ATHENS.  287 

If  all  that  grief  remembers  and  deplores, 
Could  bid  the  spoiler  turn  his  scythe  awaj, 
Or  snatch  otie  flower  from  darkness  and  decay, 
Thou  hadst  not  marked,  fair  city,  his  decline, 
Nor  reared  the  marble  in  thy  silent  shrine — 
The  cold,  ungrieving  marble — to  declare 
How  many  hopes  lie  desolated  there. 
We  will  not  mourn  for  him  !  ere  human  ill 
Could  blight  one  bliss,  or  make  one  feeling  chill. 
In  learning's  pure  embrace  he  sunk  to  rest, 
Like  a  tired  child  upon  his  mother's  breast ; 
Peace  to  his  hallowed  shade !  his  ashes  dwell 
In  that  sweet  spot  he  loved  in  life  so  well, 
And   the  sad  iSTurse   who   watched    his    early 

bloom, 
From  this  his  home,  points  proudly  to  his  toml;. 

But  oft,  when  twilight  slejps  on  earth  and  sea. 
Beautiful  Athens  !  we  will  weep  for  thee; 
For  thee,  and  for  thine  otFspring! — will  they 

bear 
The  dreary  burden  of  their  own  despair. 
Till  nature  yields,  and  sense  and  life  depart 
From  the  torn  sinews  and  the  trampled  heaxt  ? 
Oh !  by  the  mighty  shades  that  dimly  glide 
Where  Victory  beams  upon  the  turf  or  tide, 
By  those  who  sleep  at  Marathon  in  bliss, 
By  those  who  fell  at  glorious  Salamis, 
By  every  laurelled  brow  and  holy  name, 


288  ATHENS. 

By  everj  thought  of  freedom  and  of  fame, 
By  all  ye  bear,  by  all  that  ye  have  borne, 
The  blow  of  anger,  and  the  glance  of  scorn, 
The  fruitless  labour,  and  the  broken  rest, 
The  bitter  torture,  and  the  bitterer  jest, 
By  your  sweet  infant's  unavailing  cry, 
Your  sister's  blush,  your  mother's  stifled  sigh. 
By  all  the  tears  that  ye  have  wept,  and  weep, — 
Break,  Sons  of  Athens,  break  your  weary  sleep ! 

Yea,  it  is  broken  ! — ^Hark,  the  sudden  shock 
Eolls  on  from  wave  to  wave,  from  rock  to  rock; 
Up,  for  the  Cross  and  Freedom !  far  and  near 
Forth  starts  the  sword,  and  gleams  the  patriot 

spear. 
And  bursts  the  echo  of  the  battle-song. 
Cheering  and  swift,  the  banded  hosts  along. 
On,  Sons  of  Athens  !  let  your  wrongs  and  woes 
Burnish  the  blades,  and   nerve   tlie   whistling 

bows; 
Green  be  the  laurel,  ever  blest  tlie  meed 
Of  him  that  shines  to-day  in  martial  deed. 
And  sweet  his  sleep  beneath  the  dewy  sod, 
"Who  falls  for  fame,  his  country,  and  his  God ! 

The  hoary  sire  has  helmed  his  locks  of  gray. 
Scorned  the  safe  hearth,  and  tottered  to  the  fray ; 
The  beardless  boy  has  left  his  gilt  guitai". 
And  bared  his  arm  for  manhood's  holiest  war. 


ATHENS.  289 

E'en  the  "weali  girl  has  mailed  her  bosom  there, 
Clasped  tlie  rude  helmet  on  her  auburn  hair, 
Clianged  love's  own   smile  for  valour's  fiery 

glance, 
Mirth  for  the  field,  the  distaff  for  the  lance. 
Yes,  she  Avas  beauteous,  that  Athenian  maid, 
When  erst  she  sate  within  lier  myrtle  shade, 
"Without  a  passion,  and  without  a  thought, 
Save  those   which    innocence    and    childhood 

wrought, 
Delicious  hopes,  and  dreams  of  life  and  love, 
Young  flowers  below,  and  cloudless  skies  above. 
But,  oh  !  how  fair,  how  more  than  doubly  fair. 
Thus  with  the  laurel  twined  around  her  hair, — 
"While  at  her  feet  her  country's  chiefs  assemble, 
And  those  soft  tones  amid  the  war-cry  tremble. 
As  some  sweet  lute  creeps  eloquently  in, 
Breaking  the  tempest  of  the  trumpet's  din, — 
Her  corselet  fastened  with  a  golden  clasp, — 
Her  falchion  buckled  to  her  tender  grasp, — 
And  quivering  lip,  flushed  cheek,  and  flashing 

eye 
All  breathing  fire,  all  speaking  "Liberty!" 

Firm  has  that  struggle  been !  but  is  there  none 
To  hymn  the  triumph,  when  tlie  fight  is  won  ? 
Oh  for  the  harp  which  once— but  through  the 

strings. 
Far  o'er  the  sea,  the  dismal  night- wind  sings ; 

Vol.  II.— 19 


290  ATHENS. 

"Where  is  the  hand  that   swept  it? — cold  and 

mute, 
The  lifeless  master,  and  the  voiceless  Inte  ! 
The  crowded  hall,  the  murmur,  and  the  gaze, 
The  look  of  envy,  and  the  voice  of  praise. 
And  friendship's  smile,  and  passion's  treasured 

vow, — 
All  these  are  nothing, — ^life  is  nothing  nov/ ! 
But  the  hushed  triumph,  and  the  garb  of  gloom, 
The  sorrovv'  deep,  but  mute,  around  the  tomb. 
The  soldier's  silence,  and  the  matron's  tear, — 
These  are  the  trappings  of  the  sable  bier, 
Winch  time  corrupts  not,  falsehood  cannot  hide, 
Nor  folly  scorn,  nor  calumny  dei'ide. 
And  "what  is  writ,  is  writ!" — the  guilt  and 

shame, 
All  eyes  have  seen  them,  and  all  lips  may  blame; 
Where  is  the  record  of  the  wrong  that  stung, 
The  charm   that  tempted,   and  the  grief  that 

wrung? 
Let  feeble  hands,  iniquitously  just, 
Eake  up  the  relics  of  the  sinful  dust. 
Let  Ignorance  mock  the  pang  it  cannot  feel. 
And  Malice  brand,  what  Mercy  would  conceal ; 
It  matters  not !  he  died  as  all  would  die  ; 
Greece  had  his  earliest  song,  his  latest  sigh  ; 
And  o'er  the  shrine,  in  which  that  cold  heart 

sleeps, 
Glory  looks  dim,  and  joyous  conquest  weeps. 


ATHENS.  201 

The  maids  of  Athens  to  tlie  spot  sliull  bi'iiig 
The  freshest  I'oses  of  the  new-born  spring, 
And  Spartan  boj's  their  first-won  wreath  shall 

bear, 
To  bloom  ronnd  Bteon's  urn,  or  droop  in  sad- 
ness there ! 

Farewell,  sweet  Athens!  thou  shalt  be  again 
The  sceptred  Queen  of  all  thine  old  domain, 
Again  be  blest  in  all  thy  varied  charms 
Of  loveliness  and  valour,  arts  and  arms. 
Forget  not  then,  that  in  thine  hour  of  dread, 
While  the  weak  battled,  and  the  guiltless  bled, 
Though  Kings  and  Courts  stood  gazing  on  thy 

fate, 
The  bad,  to  scolf — the  better,  to  debate, 
Here,  where  the  soul  of  youth  remembers  yet 
The  smiles  and  tears  which  manhood  must  for- 
get, 
In  a  far  land,  the  honest  and  the  free 
Had  lips  to  pray,  and  hearts  to  feel,  for  thee  ! 

Note. — Several  images  in  the  early  part  of  the  poem  are  se- 
lected from  passages  in  the  Greek  Tragedians — particularly 
from  the  two  iveli-known  Choruses  in  the  OJdipiis  Coloneus 
and  the  Medea. 

The  death  of  Lord  Byron  took  place  after  the  day  appointed 
for  the  sending  in  of  the  exercises,  r.nd  the  allusion  to  it  was 
of  course  Introduced  subsequently  to  the  adjudication  of  tho 
prize. 


292  THE   ASCENT   OF    ELIJAH. 


THE  ASCENT  OF  ELIJAH.* 

"Hie,  feris  caput  inviolabile  Parcis, 

Liquit  Jordanios  turbine  raptus,  agros." 

MiLTONi  Lat.  Poem. 

Servant  of  God,  thy  fight  is  fougiit ; 

Servant  of  God,  thy  crown  is  wrought : 
Lingerest  thou  yet  upon  the  joj'less  earth  ? 

Thy  place  is  now  in  heaven's  high  bowers, 

Far  from  this  mournful  world  of  ours, 
Among  the  sons  of  light,  that  have  a  different 
birth. 

Go  to  the  calm  and  cloudless  sphere 
Where  doubt,  and  passion,  and  dim  fear. 

And  black  remorse,  and  anguish  have  no  root ; 
Turn — turn  away  thy  chastened  eyes 
From  sights  that  make  their  tears  arise. 

And  shake  th'  unworthy  dust  from  thy  depart- 
ing foot. 

Thy  human  task  is  ended  now  ; 
No  more  the  lightning  of  thy  brow 
Shall  wake  strange  terror  in  the  soul  of  guilt ; 

*  This  Poem  obtained  one  of  the  Seatonian  prizes  at  tho 
Uuiversity  of  Cambridge,  a.  d.  1830. 


TnE   ASCENT   OF    ELIJAH.  293 

As  when  thou  wentest  forth  to  fliug 
The  curse  upon  the  shuddering  King, 
Yet  reeking  with  the  blood — the  sinless  blood 
he  spilt. 

And  all  that  thou  hast  braved  and  borne, 
The  Heathen's  hate,  the  Heathen's  scorn, 

The  wasting  famine,  and  the  galling  chain, — - 
Henceforth  these  things  to  thee  shall  seeni 
The  phantoms  of  a  bygone  dream ; 

And  rest  shall  be  for  toil,  and  blessedness  for 
pain. 

Such  ^^sions  of  deep  joy  might  roll 

Through  the  rapt  Prophet's  inmost  soul, 
As,  with  his  fond  disciple  by  his  side. 

He  passed  with  dry  and  stainless  tread 

O'er  the  submissive  river's  bed. 
And  took  his  onward  way  from  Jordan's  refluent 
tide. 

High  converse  held  those  gifted  Seers 

Of  the  dark  fates  of  after  years, 
Of  coming  judgments,  terrible  and  fast ; 

The  father's  crime,  the  children's  woe. 

The  noisome  pest,  the  victor  foe. 
And  mercy  sealed,  and  truth  made  manitest  at 
last. 


294  THE    ASCENT    OF    ELIJAH. 

Tims  as  they  reasoned,  hark  1  on  high 
KoUed  back  the  portals  of  tlie  skr; 

And  from  the  courts  of  tlie  empyrean  dome 
Came  forth  what  seemed  a  fiery  car, 
On  rushing  wheels,  each  wheel  a  stai', 

And  bore  the  Prophet  thence, — 0  whither? — to 
his  home ! 

With  head  thrown  back,  and  hand  upraised. 
Long — long  that  sad  disciple  gazed. 

As  his  loved  teacher  passed  for  aye  away ; — 
"Alas,  my  father!"  still  he  cried, 
"  One  look — one  word  to  soothe  and  guide! — 

Chariot  and  horse  are  gone  from  Israel's  tents 
to-day!" 

Eartli  saw  the  sign ; — Earth  saw  and  smiled, 

As  to  her  Maker  reconciled ; 
With  gladder  murmur  flowed  the  streams  along; 

Unstirred  by  breath  of  lightest  breeze 

Trembled  the  conscious  cedar  trees. 
And  all  around  the  birds  breathed  gratitude  in 


And  viewless  harpstrings  from  the  skies 
Eang  forth  delicious  harmonies ; 
And  strange,  sweet  voices  poured  their  grateful 
hymn; 
And  radiant  eyes  were  smiling  through 


THE   ASCENT   OF   ELUAH.  295 

The  tranquil  ether's  boundless  blue, 
The   eyes  of  Heaven's  high   host,  the  joyous 
Seraphim. 

And  Piety  stood  musing  by, 

And  Penitence,  with  downcast  eye ; 

Faith  heard  with  raptured  heart  the  solemn  call, 
And,  pointing  with  her  lustrous  hand 
To  the  far  shores  of  that  blest  land. 

Sent  forth  her  voice  of  praise, — "for  him,  O 
God,— for  aU!" 

Death  frowned  far  off  his  icy  frown,* 

The  monarch  of  the  iron  crown. 
First-born  of  Sin,  the  universal  foe ; 

Twice  had  his  baffled  darts  been  vain ; 

Death  trembled  for  his  tottering  reign, 
And  poised  the  harmless  shaft,  and  drew  the  idle 
bow. 

Sons  of  the  Prophets,  do  ye  still 

Look  through  the  wood  and  o'er  the  hill. 
For  him,  your  lord,  whom  ye  may  ne'er  behold?— 

O  dreamers,  call  not  him,  when  day 

Fades  in  the  dewy  vale  away, 
Nor  when  glad  morning  crests  the  lofty  rocks 
with  gold ! 

♦  "  Stassi  da  un  lato  Morte  fnribonda, 

Che  I'aico  ha  teso,  ed  a  scoccar  s'appresta 

Ver  la  rapit.i  a  lei  salma  seconAa—'"—Salomo7i-e. 


296  THE    ASCENT   OF    ELIJAH. 

Peace !  call  that  honoured  name  no  more, 

By  Jordan's  olive-girdled  shore, 
By  Kedron's  brook,  or  Siloa's  holy  fount; 

Nor  where  the  fragrant  breezes  rove 

Through  Bethel's  dim  and  silent  grove, 
Nor  on  the  ragged  top  of  Oarmel's  sacred  mount. 

Henceforth  ye  never  more  may  meet, 
Meek  learners,  at  your  master's  feet. 

To  gaze  on  that  high  brow,  those  piercing  eyes ; 
And  hear  the  music  of  that  voice, 
Whose  lessons  bade  the  sad  rejoice, 

Said  to  the  weak,  "  Be  strong !"  and  to  the  dead, 
"Arise!" 

Go,  tell  the  startled  guards  that  wait 

In  arms  before  the  palace  gate, 
"  The  Seer  of  Thesbe  walks  no  more  on  earth  :" 

The  king  will  bid  prepare  the  feast ; 

And  tyi-ant  prince  and  treacherous  priest 
Will  move  with  haughtier  step,  and  laugh  with 
louder  mirth. 

And  go  to  Zarephath,  and  say 

What  God's  right  hand  hath  wrought  to-day 
To  the  pale  widow  and  her  twice-born  son : 

Lo,  they  will  weep,  and  rend  their  hair, 

Upstarting  from  their  broken  prayer, — 
"  Our   comforter  is  gone,  our  friend,  our  only 
one!" 


THE   ASCENT   OF   ELIJAH.  29Y 

Kay,  deem  not  so !  for  there  shall  dAvell 

A  Prophet  yet  in  Israel 
To  tread  the  path  which  erst  Elijah  trod  ; 

He  too  shall  mock  th'  oppressor's  spears, 

He  too  shall  dry  the  mourner's  tears ; 
Elijah's  robe  is  his,  and  his  Elijah's  God  ! 

But  he  before  the  throne  of  grace 

Hath  his  eternal  dwelling-place; 
His  head  is  crowned  with  an  unfading  crown ; 

And  in  the  book,  the  awful  book, 

On  which  the  angels  fear  to  look, 
The  chronicle  of  Heaven,  his  name  is  written 
down. 

Too  hard  the  flight  for  Passion's  wings. 

Too  high  the  theme  for  Fancy's  strings ; 
Inscrutable  the  wonder  of  the  tale  I 

Yet  the  false  Sanhedrim  will  weave 

Wild  fictions,  cunning  to  deceive, 
And  hide  reluctant  Truth  in  Error's  loathly  veil. 

An,d  some  in  after  years  wiU  tell* 

How  on  the  Prophet's  cradle  fell 
Rays  of  rich  glory,  an  unearthly  stream  ; 

And  some  how  fearful  visions  came 

Of  Israel  judged  by  sword  and  tlanie, 
That  wondrous  chUd  the  judge,  upon  his  father's 
dream. 

*  See  Bayle's  Diotii)n;uy,  Art.  "  Eliiab." 


298  THE    ASOSNT    OF    ELIJAH. 

Elijah  in  the  battle's  throng 

Shall  urge  the  fiery  steeds  along, 
Hurling  the  lance,  lifting  the  meteor  sword : 

Elijah,  in  the  day  of  doom, 

Shall  wave  the  censer's  i-ieh  perfume, 
To  turn  the  wrath  aside,  the  vengeance  of  the 
Lord. 

Vain,  vain!  it  is  enough  to  know 

That  in  his  pUgrimage  below 
ne  wrought  Jehovah's  will  with  steadfast  zeal ; 

And  that  he  passed  from  this  our  life 

Without  the  sorrow  of  the  strife 
Which  all  our  fathers  felt,  which  we  must  one 
day  feel. 

To  us  between  the  world  and  Heaven 

A  rougher  path,  alas !  is  given ; 
Eed  glares  the  torch,  dark  waves  the  funeral  pall ; 

The  sceptred  king,  the  trampled  slave. 

Go  down  into  the  common  grave. 
And  there  is  one  decay,  one  nothingness  for  all. 

It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  die ! 

To  watch  the  cheerful  day  flit  by 
With  all  its  myriad  shapes  of  life  and  love ; 

To  sink  into  the  dreary  gloom 

That  broods  forever  o'er  the  tomb. 
Where  clouds  are  all   around,  though  Heaven 
may  shine  above ! 


THE   ASCENT   OF   ELIJAH.  299 

But  still  a  firm  and  faithful  trust 
Supports,  consoles  the  pure  and  just: 

Serene,  though  sad,  they  feel  life's  joys  expire ; 
And  bitter  though  the  death-pang  be, 
Their  spirits  through  its  tortures  see 

Elijah's  car  of  light,  Elijah's  steeds  of  fire. 


TRAlfSLATIOIS  AND  EPIGRAMS. 


303  PTBAMIDE8   ^GTPTIAC^. 


PYRAMTDES  ^GYPTIACiE. 

CABMEN  GILECrnil  IN  CURIA  CANTAB RIQIENSI  EEOITATUM 

comrns  maximis,  a.i>.  iiDcooxxn. 


'lEPAS  dyaXfiara  aefivd  yaiag^ 
davxoc  vsicpojv  ddXajxoL,  fxiXadpov 
ovgavov  BXt-rrovreg  del,  naXatdv 

eoya  rvpdvvuv. 


stnaT* — [iv  yap  {>[ieTepoig  fivxolaiv 
Sartv,  (bg  npiv,  ovpavca  rig  av6d, 
ueiXixov  X6yov  aocpiag  PporOlg  d- 

naatv  deideiv) 


ecnad'  (hg  ovdev  diad^^ar',  ovSiv 
yiyverai  cr/c^rpcov  KXeog'     d)g  drravtag 
Xvypdv  dpna^et  atiorog,  et^pdv;/  r'  d 

^TjXog,  drepfxcov. 


THE  PYRAMIDS  OF  EGYPT. 

XRAXSLATION   OF   A   GEEEK   ODE   EECITED   AT   TUB 
OAMBEIDGE   COiiaTENCEMENT,  A.  D.  1822. 

Ye  marvels  of  this  ancient  land, 

Ye  dwellings  of  the  dead, 
Where  crowned  hrow  and  sceptred  hand 

Sleep  in  their  dreamless  bed, 
Lone  monuments  of  other  days 
"Who  lift  to  Heaven  your  ceaseless  gaze, — 

Speak,  for  within  your  murky  stone 

Philosophy  may  hear 
An  echo  of  a  hallowed  tone, 

Telling  to  mortal  ear 
Lessons  of  wisdom  deep  and  stern, — 
Lessons  which  pride  is  slow  to  learn  ; — 

Speak  how  the  glory  and  the  power, 

The  diadems  of  kings, 
Are  but  the  visions  of  an  hour, 

All  unenduring  things ; 
And  how  tliat  Deatli  hath  made  for  all 
A  chamber  in  his  silent  Hall. 


304  PYRAMIDEB   ^GTPTIAC^. 


'(7[j,sv  o)g  (iQorolaL  OaveXv  rrtngcdTai. 
TTd  rixva,  no,  6'  liiegSev  pi[3aKS 
KdXXog  dvdpcoTTUtv ;  rdv  dripfiov'  vnvov 
ev6ofieg  iv  yd, 


dvOTvXsig,  ^^aiiEQtoi.^  Trrepwrwv 
(P&cy,^  dvetpdruv,  dndrav  gkloloiv 
ddXtaig  tX&Tj  icsKaXvufxevog  dvo- 

iK<pvyog  AtSag. 


oifSs  yap  aefivdv  KecpaXdv  dvanrog 
Xpyjfiadiv  TTO)  7Tei66{j,svog  heOtJks 
Ta^dgov  icevdfj.6v    b  6'  iv  dSovaXg  ve- 
dvtdog  u)Qag 

SvOTTOTfiog  fieya  (ppoviet,  TpE<f>Ec  ts 
iXnc6o)v  (pavXov  Ogdaog,  rjSe  -rroaatv 
ficucpd  Pacvei,  Kvdvsdv  re  deioig 

ofifxaai  Xevaaei, 


THE   PYRAMIDS    OF   EGYPT.  30t 

We  know,  we  know  that  all  must  die ! 

"Where  is  our  knowledge  then, — 
The  plotting  head,  the  beaming  eye, 

The  boasts  of  mortal  men  ? 
In  earth's  oblivion,  dull  and  deep, 
We  sleep  our  unawakened  sleep  ; 

Like  forms  that  float  in  twilight's  shade, 

And  ere  the  day  are  gone, — 
When  from  his  misty,  joyless  glade 

Stern  Hades  glideth  on, 
Wi-apped  in  his  robe  of  quiet  gloom, 
To  call  us  to  the  silent  tomb. 


He  will  not  loose  in  that  dread  hour 
The  Monarch's  jewelled  brow. 

Won  by  the  wealth,  the  pomp  of  power, 
In  which  he  joyeth  now  ; 

Poor  mortal !  while  the  sun  of  spring 

Smiles  on  his  warm  imagining, — 

Unhappy ! — ^he  hath  thoughts  of  pride, 

And  aspirations  vain, 
And  marches  with  a  godlike  stride, 

Chilling  the  courtier  train 
With  the  cold  glance  of  royal  ire. 
More  dreaded  than  the  lightning  fire. 
Vol.  11.-20 


306  PyPvAMTOES   ^QYPTIAU^. 


ox^TXtog'    (pdivet  rdds  Travra,  vi)|  yog 
elXev    0)  an^al  (pQeveg,  u)  yeXolai 
(pgovrideg,  novoc  te'    rvgawiKag  ev- 
ToaOs  ridgag 


loddvu,  TXLKQdv  Tt  jeXcjv,  b  Xvygdg 
VEQ-ipuv  dva^,  Qdvarog-    Pgaxdav  6' 
aSovdv  x(^9^0l^svog,  naKolg  yk- 

yaOe  ddXoiaiv 


alipa  6'  u)p[iaoev,  wpv^iO)  re  Kevrgat 
aadeveg  TsXxog  rdde  xgi^(>o(peyyeg 
(pev  didpp^^ev'    ri  61  rig,  ri  d'  ovrig; 
vp|,  bXoT]  vi)^ 


elXs  rdv  nglv  Xaiircgdrarov,  rbv  dgx'dg 
dyXaav  t-xovra  %(ipiv,  rbv  allv 
rjo'  dna^  evdatfiova,  rdv  -navdgxf'^'^ 
TTOLfisva  XaQ)V. 


THE  PTKAMIDS  OF  EGYrT.     307 

And  what  are  these  ?  in  cold  and  cloud 

The  motley  pageant  flies  I 
Weep  for  the  weakness  of  the  proud, 

The  follies  of  the  wise  ! 
Ever  within  the  golden  ring 
That  rounds  the  temples  of  a  king, 


Death,  lord  of  all  beneath  the  sky, 
Holdeth  his  stubborn  court ; 

And,  as  he  gives  to  Royalty 
Its  momentary  sport, 

Points  his  wan  finger  all  the  while 

With  shaking  head,  and  bitter  smile  ; 

And  at  the  last  the  Phantom  thin 
Leaps  up  within  the  hold  ; 

And,  with  a  little  hidden  pin, 
Bores  through  his  wall  of  gold. 

What  are  we  in  our  fate  and  fall  ?^ 

Night,  Night,  the  jailer  of  us  all, 

Hath  bound  in  her  funereal  chain 

The  beautiful,  the  brave, 
The  ignorant  of  human  pain, 

The  lord  of  land  and  wave, 
The  shepherd  of  his  people's  rest, 
The  ever  and  the  wholly  blest. 


308  PYKAillDES   ^GYrTIACiE. 


evdv  6'  i-v  dbiioiaZv  opwpe  ttikqov 
ovXtov  y6ov  v^(j)og'    kv  6e  dovirsi 
(wf  [idrav)  Krvnrjfia  x^Q^v-     TTtrveL  3^  d- 
fivy[j,ara  xatrag 


l[jieQ(ti.  XevKdv  6i  deiiag  Oavdvrog 
oaiia  Xevicdv  Ivdexsrai.,  Tvpdvvcjv 
6aTE0)v  dyavdv  edog,  veKpcov  ne- 

Xupiov  epKog. 


ravra  fiev  VEKpiov  yegag  ear',     iyo)  de 
elaoQoJv  dco  [iagiidgeov,  naXaicov 
iJLvdfiad^  Tigu)G)v,  [ivxO''t^  e^  OKoretva 

KEUfieva  vvktI, 


^dfinL,  Gag  dgx^?  ^'''^  '^^'^  ''"^  rtjiiwv 
uvdaojxar     KXvraXg  i^irCoJV  doLdalg 
"kdufit,,  odv  ipvxdv  ivl  VTjvefiOig  Trpoc- 

^dey^oiiai  6p(l>vcug. 


THE   PYRAMroS   OF    EGYPT.  309 

And  straight  among  the  conrtier  bands 

The  hired  hxmentings  rise  ; 
And  there  is  striking  of  fair  hands, 

And  weeping  of  bright  eyes ; 
And  the  long  locks  of  women  fall 
In  sorrow  round  that  gorgeous  Hall. 

And  last,  upon  some  solemn  day, 

The  tomb  of  all  his  race 
Hath  opened  for  his  shivering  clay 

The  dismal  dwelling-place, 
The  dim  abyss  of  sculptured  stones, 
The  prison-house  of  royal  bones. 

These  are  the  honours  of  the  dead  ! 

But,  as  I  wander  by. 
And  gaze  upon  yon  marble  bed 

"With  lost  and  loitering  eye, 
Till  back  upon  my  awe-struck  soul 
A  thousand  ages  seem  to  roll, 


I  muse  on  thee,  whom  this  recess 

Hides  in  its  pathless  gloom. 
Thy  glory  and  thy  nothingness, 

Thine  empire  and  thy  tomb  ; 
And  call  thee,  Psammis,  back  to  light. 
Back  from  the  veil  of  Death  and  Xight. 


310 


PYEAMIDES    JSGTPTIAC^. 


kXds,  KLKhjuKU)  OS- — iieveig  duXavarog 
liapudpcp  nte^dfievog,  66[xov  re 
Xacvov  valeig- — KgoKolSanrov  t'A0'  ev- 
[j-aglv  deipcov. 


aKTJTTTpov  iv  xdgeaoL  Xafiuyv,  ridpag 
Xafxngdv  iic  Kpardg  (pdXapov  TTicpavaKow 
^Xd',  dva^- — av  /i'  ovk  dteig- — p^Pamg, 

^diifii^  Kal  iv  ydg 


dyKdXaig  evdeig  irt,  TVfifioxoxJTdv  6' 
epYfia  nirgaig  dldioLq  KaXvixret 
aufia  Tov  Karoixofiivov,  SvaoSfiov 

cufia,  Tvpdvvov. 


aol  ds  TL  xpai'(^fisi  rdS' ;  bdonrdgog  rig 
rdv  Tsdv  aTadrjasTai  d[X(pi  rv^Pov, 
dorioov  tpvxpdv  ano^cdv  Xvdevruv 

TTOoal  nardGacov 


THE  PYKAMTDS  OF  EGYPT.     311 

Come  from  thy  darkness !  all  too  long 

Thou  lingerest  in  the  grave  ; 
Thou,  the  destroyer  of  the  strong, 

The  powerful  to  save : 
Come  from  thy  darkness  ; — set  again 
Thy  saflEron  sandal  on  the  plain ; 


And  bid  thy  golden  sceptre  gleam 

Its  wonted  radiance  yet ; 
And  let  thy  briglit  tiara  beam 

Around  thy  locks  of  jet ; 
And  play  the  king  upon  thia  spot. 
As  when — alas !  thon  listenest  not ! 

Thy  might  hath  fleeted  from  the  day ; 

Thy  very  name  is  hid  ; 
Yet  pride  hath  heaped  upon  thy  clay 

A  ponderous  Pyramid ; 
And  thou  art  kingly  still,  and  blest 
In  a  right  royal  place  of  rest. 

O  what  is  this  to  thee  or  thine? 

Some  traveller  idly  stalks 
Around  the  tomb  of  all  thy  line, 

And  tramples  as  he  walks, 
"With  rebel  foot,  and  reckless  eye. 
The  dust  which  once  was  Majesty. 


312  PYRAMIDES    JEGTrXIAC^. 


og  a',  dyaKXeiToTg  nore  imovoottoiuv 
X^Qsaiv  yeygani-ievov  ev  TTeXo)Qoig 
liv&iiarog  [ivxolg,  amoLGt.  del^ec 

OavjjLa  BgeTavvotg. 


ij  jiaKag  av,  rQlg  fidKag'    6,/^X,'  Efioiys 
[irjdanojg  elr]  rdde  oefivdv  dx-Oog, 
fiTjdafxcog  i]  xdoiv  vnoKeLHEVU)  j3(i- 

geXa  yevoiro. 


Tvrddg  etrj  fxot  rd^og'    iv  (3a6eta 
KeiooiiaL  I3i]aaa-    [xaXaKdg  61  avrdg 
&6v  <p(i)vdaet  Zitpvgog,  KaXxi  r'  d- 

ei  Kvnapiaaco 

fivpoiva  Ts  TrjXeddGXTa  nayd 
evoKiov  devaet  rdnov    tvda  "noXXdv 
^^VKdnenXog  Mvafioovva  rdcfxi)  6d(f>- 
vav  eTTidTJoer 


THE  rYEAMTDS  OF  EGYPT.     313 

Thy  portrait  and  thine  enlogy, 

Traced  by  some  artist  hand, 
And  all  that  now  remains  of  thee, 

Dragged  to  a  distant  land, 
Must  be  a  thing  for  girls  to  know, 
A  jest,  a  marvel,  and  a  show  1 

Hail,  happy  one ! — but  not  for  me. 

So  poor,  so  little  worth, 
May  Buch  a  spacious  temple  be ; 

Nor  let  my  mother  Earth, 
When  I  am  laid  in  my  cold  bed, 
Lie  heavy  on  my  slumbering  head  : — 


Give  me  a  low  and  humble  mound 

In  some  sequestered  dell  I 
"Where  Zephyr  shall  make  music  round 

My  buried  dust  shall  dwell. 
There  shall  the  turf  with  dew  be  wet ; 
And  while  one  natural  rivulet 


Shall  wander  on  its  way,  and  sing 
Beneath  the  twilight  beam, 

Cypress  and  myrtle  both  shall  spring 
Beside  its  bubbling  stream ; 

And  Memory  shall  scatter  there 

The  laurel  I  have  longed  to  wear. 


.314  PYEAMIDES   ^GYPTrACJ5. 


noXXuKig  (5'  bdvgofxiva  TroreXdoi 
odfia  Tovfidv  a  TQL(piXarog  AiyAa, — 
XaZpe,  (pojVEva'  davxccog,  rigsv  re 

ddKpv  x^oiaa. 


riq  x^Qi'^i  '''k,  "rrvgafitSuv ;  Ifiov  yap 
fivdoeai  av'    ordOsaiv  kv  reolaiv 
eoaonar    (f>ev  orddsaiv  Iv  reoXotv 

ioaofiai,  AiyXa. 


THE   PYKAHnDS   OF    EGYl'T.  Ox.) 

And  one  fond  form  shall  often  glide, 

When  tolls  the  evening  bell, 
To  whisper  o'er  that  tomb  and  tide 

One  echoless  "  farewell!" 
jfVnd  shed  one  tear  in  that  dim  grove, 
The  silent  tear  of  parted  love. 

Raise  not  for  me  a  Pyramid  I 

Carve  not  a  stone  for  me ! 
The  tear  that  gleams  in  that  pale  lid 

Shall  be  mine  elegy ; 
And  in  thy  breast,  thy  tender  breast, 
My  shade  shall  find  a  home  of  rest  I 


316      IN   OBITUM   T.  F.  M.  EPISC.  CALCUTT. 

m  OBITUM 

VIHl  ADUODUM  EEVESENDI  DOCTISBIMIQtrB 

THOM^   FANSHAWE   MIDDLETON, 

EPISCOPI   CALCDTTEXSI3. 

CABMEN  GE^CtlM   IN   CCEIA   CANTABEIGIENSI  EECITATUM 
COMITUS  MAXIilia,  A.  T>.    M.DCCC.XXIII. 

NAMATfiN  Trdrep,  (iadvTtXnvTS  Vdyya, 
Xatgei  X"-"^?'  ^l^oi-  ov  [lev  ig  OdXaocav 
anipag  Xaxojv  driXevTov  avydv 

evppoov  lelg 
Kviidruv  KXvdo)va-    f^XiTTCov  6'  eg  evgi) 
(bgavci  fiiXadpov  del  nor'  avpag 
yagveig  dyaXXdjievog  fisyav  tzo- 

XvppoOoV  VflVOV. 

ri  iiaKUQ  ov-    deaTTeoig.  ydg  avdd 
rdv  Qedv  rdv  aUv  nXads'  allv 
tv  aifteig-    rratdeg  6e  reol  icaKa  ice- 

/cpvufiivoi  op(j)va 
KEivrar    h  rf'  alvdv  6iog^  iv  d'  oveidog 
(3dgfiapov,  fivOoc  re  kevoI  nerovTaL- 
Svda  yog  XaCJv  cppiv'  dvaXioig  tttv- 

XoXat  KaXvTTTE, 


HIND0STA2I.  317 


HINDOSTAN. 

TRANSLATIOIT  OF  A  GREEK  ODE  TO  THE  MEMORY 
OF  THE  VERY  REVEREND  AND  LEARNED  THOMAS 
FANSHAWE  MIDDLETON,  BISHOP  OF  CALCUTTA, 
RECITED  AT  THE  OAMBEIDQB  COMMENCEMENT, 
A.  D.    1823. 

Father  of  rivers,  Ganges,  hail  to  thee ! 
Thou,  in  the  joy  of  thine  unfading  day, 
Goest  thy  wonted  way, 
Unwearied,  to  the  sea  ; 

And,  ever  gazing  with  a  steadfast  gaze 
On  the  huge  canopy  of  sunny  heaven, 
Singest  from  morn  to  even 
Thy  changeless  song  of  praise. 

So  thou  art  happy :  for  thy  hymn  is  loud 
Eternally  to  Him,  th'  eternal  King : 
Doubt  flaps  h-er  murky  wing, 

Dim  Ignorance  Spreads  her  cloud 

Around  thee  ;  and  wild  fancies,  wild  and  vain, 
Hither  and  thither  thread  the  lurid  air : 
Darkness,  Sin's  mother,  there 
Holds  her  unlovely  reign ; 


318      IN   OBITUM  T.  F.  M.  EPI8C.  CALCUTT. 

6  S/cdro^",  TTVKvov  ve(pog  a^Trerdooag, 
ovSe  4>ajf,  Qeov  toSe  regTTvdv  dvQog, 
OTTopyavrodev  t«  vecpeXdv  KaXovg  (ie- 

(3aKs  ttot'  dypovg. 
TTOOGaKig,  0£v,  TToaaaKig  alfxarTjgag 
aXiog  (3?.E7TeL  Ovaiag ; — rig  bx^og* 
Igx^'O''' ; — T^vgav  ydp  op7//i/  Ki]deL- 

6v  re  x^Q^'i'^'v 
TTdpdevcjv,  nenXd)fiaTd  6'  dfSQoTtTjva, 
Xpvatov  6'  ayvdv  oiXag,  agyvgdv  re, 
Pdpf3agov  xXldaua'    fidX'  ln^oftelrai 

6la  l,eXdva 
Aa/iTradwv  6pcioa  <fjdog'    ndpeariv 
a  Kdga'    OijCJaa  diKav  ;^;i/Liaipaf 
KslraL  ev  reixst,  ^vXlvg)  fiaracov 

ddicpv  x^otoa. 
(j)£v  NeaXXiva-    x^^egdv  ydg  dvdoc, 
6o)[MdT(ov  djaXfia,  KaKcjg  bXaXev 
avTdxecg  oXoiX'-    legEO)v  da  rexvat 

ovttot'  aKgavroi. 

*  "Ot  Bight  of  grief !  the  wives  of  Arvalan, 
Young  Azla,  young  Nealliny  are  seen ; 
Their  widow  robes  of  whito, 
With  gold  and  jewels  bright, 
Each  like  an  Eastern  queen."  ....&& 

See  SounrEY's  Curte  of  Kthama. 
Canto  I.  "ThoPuncMl." 


HINDOSTAN.  819 

And  never,  since  thy  glorious  course  began, 
Hath  the  glad  light,  Nature's  most  precious 

flower, 
Looked  from  its  home  of  power 
Upon  the  soul  of  Man. 

How  often  yet — how  often  will  the  sun 

Behold  the  rites  of  death  with  that  calm  smile? 
Lo !  they  have  laid  the  pile ; 
The  virgins,  one  by  one, 

Chant  solemnly  the  hymn — the  funeral  hymn ! 
The  rich  robes  float;  the  costly  gems  beam 

bright ; 
The  flambeau's  flickering  light 
Makes  the  clear  day  look  dim. 

Wliere  is  the  Victim  ?     Lo !  the  bride  appears, 
Mute,  motionless,  a  blameless  sacrifice ; 
Upon  the  pile  she  lies, 
Weeping  unheeded  tears. 

"Woe  for  Nealliny,  the  tender  reed  I 

"Woe !  she  has  said  th'  irrevocable  vow ; — 
Self-slaughtered  ?     Answer  thou, 
Priest  of  a  bloody  creed ! 


320      IN    OBITUM   T.  F.  M.  EPISC.  CALCUTT. 

olov  a  deiXaiordra  TTgojSatvsi 
oljjov     a  Ti^vyga  ITada/lwvof  avla 
vrjXeoJg  ;^atvet,  Kvav6(pgvGiv  d'  vrr' 

ofifiaoL  Xevoaei 
micpdv  (5  GTvyvdg  (SaaiXevq'     Trap'  ovdsv 
avx^vog  ^avOdv  7TX6Ka[j.ov,  Trap'  ovdev 
Xgvoeov  XcTcov  n^Xog  ol  KaKol  rt- 

OeVTl  jEgOVTEQ' 

Tv^iTrdvcov  ax^l  niXadog,  avvaxet 
Kv^PaV-     a  6e,  Xdlpe,  XeyoLoa — XacQs, 
XeLTTBTai,  x^^^og  6'  aixaXbv  nvQdg  St- 

eSpafiev  opfid. 
ravTa  7rapf5^(3aKev  dn'  bnndrwv     ev 
naQf3ef3aKe-     vvv  6e  rig  avriK'  rjvdev  ;* 
rig  arSvog,  rig ;  dp'  dteig ;  iv  avpa 
rdv  drepafivov 
apudr ojv  Ppovrdv  dto),  Kol  dvdpdv 
fivpicov  niKTov  66pvj3ov,  koI  innow 
Oovpiuv  (ppvayfiar'-     16\  wf  ttoXlv  kv 
Xivdsrai  dix(pt 

*  "Now  bring  ye  forth  the  chariot  of  the  God  t 
Bring  him  abroad, 
That  through  tlie  swarming  city  he  may  ride."    .    .    .    <fcc. 

See  Soutuey's  Ctirse  ofKehnma. 
Canto  XI Y.    "  Jaira-naut." 


HmDOSTAN,  321 

For  her  the  dismal  pathway  must  be  trod ; 
The  liall  of  Padalon,  the  dark,  the  dread, 
Is  yawning  for  its  dead, 
And  the  relentless  god 

Frowns  with  his  moody  eyebrows.    Naught  avail 
With  those  unpityiug  seers  her  terroi's  meek. 
Her  soft-toned  prayers,  her  cheek 
So  eloquently  pale ! 

Hark  to  the  cymbal,  and  the  bellowing  drum ! 
"Farewell,    farewell!"   she  whispers. — It   ia 

past ; 
And  round  her,  thick  and  fast, 
The  stifling  flashes  come. 

Away,  away!  they  fly,  those  sights  of  death.— 
Now  fiercer  echoes  scare  my  shuddering  ear ' 
Hear'st  thou  ?     I  hear — I  hear. 
Upon  the  vrild  wind's  breath, 

Tlie  thunder  of  the  chariot-wheels,  the  shou. 
Of  mighty  multitudes  that  cheer  or  chide 
The  charger's  voice  of  pride! — 

Hurriedly  thronging  out 
Vol.  11.-21 


322    m  OBiTUM  T.  P.  ^r.  episc.  calcutt. 

iKQsov  doficov  dno  Kal  vaTrduv 
Kvfxa  (fxjJTwv,  [xarepeg  1)6^  TraXdeg, 
nagdtvot  re  nvpaocpogor    fieaog  6'  b 

HVQLOKQaVOQ 

"tdgoq  dpddg  rjvioxel,  Kal  vtpov 
laddvoyv,  dcpavrov  bgafia,  PaKrpov 
X9v<y^g,  TEivei  x^pi,  ^aivii)  re 

X^i^u  oaigec. 
d^ovog  d'  iStt'  dpyaXeov  PpvovoL 
■  <f)oivioi  navra  orayoveg,  koL  dxn 
6aTe(i)v  dsLvdv  7TaTuy)]na-    (pev,  dC 

aljia  (f)6vov  re 
ipx^'''ai'  Qf:ov  ^vydv,  ov6e  deiXdv 
Traverai  (iporiov  bXoXv^'udg^  61  vvv 
ddXiio  TTTjdTJiiari  rdv  (piXov  ^7]- 

rovoiv  oXedpov. 
djMfil  6e  areppd  rd;^  opope  (j)(i)vd' 
'Kqx^Q'  vfivcov,  dpxere-    TTOidXotg  yap 
ivriv  ev  dicppoig  6  Qedg'    rdv  al^o- 

(pvprov  dvaKTo 
Xprj  aifisiv.    Icj,  aifiofiev,  arevayfidv 
ev  arivovTeg  Oeansatov,  x^PV  "^^ 
GvyfcvKXovvTeg  rd  aTe^av7](popov  itf- 

Xcjpioi'  dpjia. — 


HENDOSTAN.  323 

From    street   and   grove   tlie   hiiraau  flood   is 
poured ; 
Mothers,  and  sons,  and  maidens  wlioso  white 

hands 
"Wave  wide  the  blazing  brands : 
And  He,  the  mighty  lord, 

The  thousand-headed  Serpent,  sits  the  while. 
Sceptred  and  crowned,  upon  his  rolling  throne, 
Writhing  his  lips  of  stone 
Into  a  fearful  smile. 

Beneath  the  creaking  axle  the  red  flood 
Gushes  unceasing ;  scattered  on  the  stones 
Lie  crushed  and  mangled  bones; 

Through  slaughter  and  through  blood 

The  chariot  of  the  god — the  dark  god — reels ; 
And    laughter — shrill,    unnatural    laughter — ■ 
As  each  mad  victim  springs  [rings 

To  meet  the  murderous  wheels. 

And  still  the  cry  goes  up :  "  Begin  the  song — 
Begin ! — Behold  him  on  his  golden  seat, 
The  terrible  !  'tis  meet. 
Thus  as  he  rides  along, 

"  To  worship  him,  the  Lord,  whose  slaves  we  are  ! 
Yea,  yea,  we  worship,  hymning  now  the  hymn, 
And  dancing  round  the  grim 
And  flower-encircled  car !" 


)24:      IN   OBITUSI   T.  F.  M.  EPISC.  CALCCTT. 

Tjv  dp,  rjv  (b  ravra  jutfic/l'"    cgugev, 
'AA^iov,  owv  lie  oKOTc^Xojv  6  crwrr/p* 
(bg  16\  (hg  t(pgt^ev  ld6)V    rbr'  avdtg 
Ik.  vecpeXdcov 

TToadl  Xsviiolg  'E.vvoiua  j3el3aK.£V, 
Kol  Kaotyvdra  ACko,  knfiQen-qg  re 
rivdtv  'Eilpdva,  Q^fiiTog  dvyar^g 

dXBo66TEi.Qai. 

(pev,  I3paxsta  rep^ig'  b  yap  ra  6wpa 
7rpo(70t;pa)v  tcaXXLOra  Trarrjp  oXoiXev 
KelTcu  Iv  veKpoloL  VEKpdg' — Oavelv  (3po- 

TOlGi  Ti£TTQO)rat* 

ndoiv,  ev  rod'  olda'    KaXiov  ye  fiCvroc 
KayadoJv  t'py'  elv  'AtJa  ddfioiaiv 
vorepov  ^ojovti,  ical  sic  trog  rax' 

aXXo  (pvovTi. 
ev  rrddoLg,  dvep  (piXe,  icdv  veKpotoLV 
ev  Txddoig  del'    -ne^LXafitvog  yap 
fig  TTOK.'  ev  (^(ooXg-    TTStptXan^vog  vvv 

eoaeaL  ev  ycL' 

*  "All  heads  must  come 
To  the  col(i  tomb, 
Only  tho  actions  of  the  just 
Bmell  eweot  and  blossom  in  the  dust" 

Shirley. 


HIND0STA2T.  325 

Is  there  no  help  for  this  lost  realm  ? — from  thee, 
My  own,  my  Fatherland,  the  saviour  came ; 
Ho  saw  the  scene  of  shame — 
He  saw,  and  wept  to  see. 

Soon,  at  his  bidding,  Love,  the  beauteous  child, 
Eeturned ;    rich    Plenty   blessed   the    land's 

increase ; 
Staid  Order,  gentle  Peace, 

Twin-born  of  Justice,  smiled. — 

The  morrow  dawned ;  and  lo !  the  hand  that  gave 
Knowledge  and  mercy  forth,  is  still  and  cold. 
All  men,  we  know  of  old. 
Go  down  into  the  grave, — 

The  bad  with  curses,  and  the  good  with  tears ; 
But  still  the  actions  of  the  pure  and  just 
Live  on,  and  in  the  dust 
Bear  fruit  for  other  years. 

Servant  of  God,  a  blessing  on  thy  head ! 
E'en  in  the  tomb  a  blessing!     Love  did  move 
Around  thee,  living  ; — Love 
Will  not  forget  thee,  dead ! 


326      IN   OBITU^I   T.  F.  M.  EPI8C.  CALCUTT. 

tcoear    ri  nXrjV  ;  oaiov  ye  rvfij3ov 
ev6e(i)g  daidaXXofiev,  iv  6e  rvfif^G) 
rav  redv  alvav  ■ypd<pofj.ev,  nodov  re, 
0)  na/caglra. 
ivOdS',  eUog  [xapudpsov,  fidrai-ov 
'Ivdia  orsvEL  ydov,  at  6e  [idacai 
deiiXoig  (f)vXXu)v  'xpLdvgiajiaaiv  rdv 

TTevdc[j.ov  avddv 
adioig  dpvXXovaiv    b  d'  irrrdcpuvog 
vddrlov  TTaTTJp  Ppadig  ^g  ddXaaaav 
KVfi&TGiv  xeei  pdov    davx^  KXai- 

ovaa  Trap'  oxda, 
fiopocfiotg  dfiaxavioiaa  Xvnaig, 
laddvec  Kbpa  ng,  irrl  ftetdpoig 
bnndTGiv  TT%aoa  (f>dog,  KaXdg  ttX^^- 

acr'  Evl  k6X~(i) 
(bXevag- — roadvde  yepag  davdvri 
a  narplg  dtdcoatv,  del  6'  en'  avr^ 
XevKo-axvg  Mvafioavva  daKpvaei. 

riucog  e^7]c^ 
ev  de  TtdvaKag-    rroXidv  ydp  ovra 
Xafiftdvet  GKdTog,  l3t6rov  re  Trdpao). 
evxofiai  rocQvde  jSiov,  nd(pov  roi- 

dvSe  Xdxonii. 


HINDOSTAN.  327 

Wliat  more  than  this  will  Providence  allow? 
We  shape  thy  monument,  and  with  sad  pen 
Write,  "Ho  was  reverenced  then, — 
He  is  lamented  now  I" 

,  There  in  the  living  marble  India  grieves ; 
The  hoary  forest  seems  to  send  around 
A  low  and  wailing  sound 
From  its  unnumbered  leaves, 

And  the  great  Eiver  pours  its  sacred  streams 
More  slowly  onward  to  the  mournful  sea. 
Beneath  a  spreading  tree, 

Wrapped  in  her  lonely  dreams, 

Some  maiden  sits,  pale,  with  neglected  charms. 
Hiding  a  funeral  urn  within  her  vest. 
And  humbly  o'er  her  breast 
Folding  her  snowy  arms. 

These  are  thine  honours!  o'er  the  hallowed  spot, 
When  the  soft  moonlight  comes  upon  the  vale. 
Memory  shall  tell  her  tale. 

Mourning,  and  murmuring  not ; 

For  silvered  o'er  with  time,  and  full  of  days, 
Thou  sleepest  well ! — May  Heaven  to  me  as- 
sign 
In  life  such  task  as  thine. 

And  in  the  tomb  such  praise  I 


328  EPIGRAMMATON    LIEEE. 

EPIGRAMMATON  LIBER: 

GK.SCE,    LATINE,   ANGLI6K. 

EPa  TE  AIITA  K'OYK   EPO. 

KagoXirra,  -naoCov  irapdivayv 
u)v  olda  TxovXv  (piXrara, 
y^T]  0(pdXXe  rdv  (pLXovvrd  os 
66Xovg  TrXeaovaa  iivgiovg. 
KaXstg  jue  -ngdg  oe  TToXXaKig, 
(pevyetg  \xb  rdv  icaXov[j,evov' 
(ptXafiar'  alrtovrt  not, 
dovvat  dsXsig  re  kov  deXeig' 
ipav  ae  ^qg,  ae  d'  avriica 
ov  <p7jg- — av  xaXge^  TragdivoyV 
wv  ol6a  TTovXv  (piXTdra, 
evQTjfca  yag  Tfjvd''  tKXvatv, 
evgrjKa,  ocov  alvtyfidroyv-^ 
igag  jxs  Srjra,  kovk  igag, 
kgu)  oe  6?JTa,  kovk  tpw. 

(This  was  one  of  the  Cuuibridgo  Prize  Epigrams  for  1822.) 


EPIGBAMMATON    LIBEK.  3  2 'J 


LOVE   AND   NO  LOVE. 

TRANSLATION  OF  THE  FOREGOINO. 

Chaelotte,  tliou  far  the  dearest  belle 

Of  all  tLat  e'er  were  dear  to  me, 
Vex  not  a  heart  that  loves  so  well 

"With  such  a  riddling  cruelty ! 
"With  softest  tone  your  lips  invite, 

And  when  I  come,  you  haste  aside; 
You  promise  me  a  kiss  to-night, 

I  take  it,  and  you  turn  to  chide  ; 
You  smile, — alas,  you  frown  again ; 

You  love  me, — and  you  love  me  not; 
I  will  not  shiver  Cupid's  chain, 

But  find  a  way  to  loose  the  knot ; 
And  we  an  equal  flame  will  prove ; 

Love,  as  you  love  me,  lovely  belle, 
Love  me, — without  a  spark  of  love, 

And  I  will  love  you — just  as  well! 


330  eptCtKAmmaton  liber. 


/5. 

'AvTi|3i))v  fiapvavTO  koAoO  nepl  HapBevonrioi 

ndAAas  'ASrjvaiT}  KaX  yAvKiiSwpos  'Epu/s. 
eljre  S'  'Kdr\valxi  Tlaj>ia.<;  xpHCOTTepog  vtd« 

euye*     Ti'ij  Si)  vwt  Sidaranev  aAAjjAotcrtf; 

oiSa  yap,  a/on^OTepoij  Jrats  65e  fioOAos  ei^v. 
vevo-ev  'AerjvaiT/-     fii(J)u'7)!  S'  €K  TouSe  n-ec^ufcws 

a./i<^OTepwv  Tijuaf  a^tc^eire  Ilapflei'OJreus. 
vuv  yap  epa,  vwi'  S'  oO-     SoCAos  xal  eAeuflepds  €(7T4V' 

e(7Ti>'  ayav  avoos,  Kai  (r6(|)0s  e<7Tiv  ayavt 
TToAAoKiS  efaJTtVj)?  ere  KaTe'K<f>vvei'.  ««  ^e  waAatcrTpa? 

TToAAoKis  efa7rtVi)s  >)»'6e  rot,  'Apcriror). 


'EfoT   ejnijv  vfnJx'iJ''  yAvKepoi*  /3aAe  Kun-pis  oIcttoi?, 
OTaflecnv  ev  fiuxaTOi?  fiupia  Tpavfiar'  ex<o- 

XAcipiS'  epu,  Kai  AaiS'  epM,  ital  Ao/.i7rpa  KopiVvas 
0fX|i*aTa,  Kai  fiaAaicr)?  X«''^«"  'A^/ao-racrtr)?. 

ois  OM  ixaTav  ToSe  rdfoi'  ex«'?>  '^"■^^>  ^^^pi-y  ^f'^fM>"» 
OS  yap  epu  jrairas,  ovSep.iav  iror   epw. 


EPIGKAMMATON    LIBER.  331 


SCRIBIMUS  INDOCTI  DOCTIQUB. 

Ot  r6<}>oi  ot  t'  oercx^oi  TrdvTcs  /aoAa  /u,ov(ron^oioO(7ti" 
dXAa  Toi"  6V  TOUT(|»  Keifievov  avSpa  Ta<j>(f 

ri  aaoifiov  teoAc'etv  ^  XPV  trcxfiov  e^oxa  iravTiav, 
ovSev  yap  ypa\|fas  ol\€Tai,  eis  'Ai5i)i'« 

Ad/^j3a;'€  irpoiKa,  Xdpov,  Toi/  K0v<f>6TaT0v  TTpo<ri6vT<>iV' 
fiovvoi  T<av  6vriTo)v  ov  Kardyei  Ki^dpai/. 

(This  was  one  of  the  Cambridge  Prize  Epigrams  for  1824.) 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE   FOREGOINa. 

Both  the  wise  and  the  witless  scribble  ; 

But  the  wight,  whom  here  we  bury, 
By  the  grace  of  the  skies 
Must  have  been  very  wise, 

Or  very  foolish, — very  ! 

He  never  wrote  a  stanza  : 

Small  weight  will  Charon  find  him  ; 
The  only  Ghost 
Who  comes  to  the  coast, 

And  brings  no  harp  behind  him  I 


332  llPIGliAMMATON   LEBEK, 


NUG^  SERIA  DUCUNT  IN  MALA. 

I. 

Odit  Charinus  serias  senum  barbas, 
Totusque  nugis  illaborat  urbanis. 
Nugus  amicus,  tota  territat  nutu 
Critico  theatra,  fit  gravis  cotburnorum 
Fidiumque  censor,  laudat  auream  Ledse 
Yocem,  pedesqiie  mobiles  Tigelliui, 
Et  seminudam  Thaidos  venustatem. 
Nugis  amicus,  scit  leves  puellarum 
Captare  risus,  ore  vota  mellito 
Garrire  callet,  seu  Nefera  seu  Pbyllis 
Tele  medullas  lajserit  venenato. 
Nugis  amicus,  per  beata  Parnassi 
Errat  vireta,  floridas  Camenarum 
Legit  corollas,  aureum  quatit  plectrum, 
Permessioque  labra  prolnit  rivo. 
Quid  inde  fiet  ? — his  senescit  in  nugis, 
Veneris  facetus  servus, — et  columuarum ; 
Inutilisque  cauet,  esurit,  torpet, 
Nimis  jocosus,  soriusque  nugator. 

(This  was  ono  of  the  Caiubridge  Prize  Epigrams  for  1S22.) 


EPIGKAMMATOJSr   LIBER. 


TEDFLES  END  IN  SERIOUS  EYILS. 

TEANSLATION   OF   THE   FOEEGOING. 

"With  all  a  fashionable's  rage 

Charinus  loathes  the  beard  of  age  ; 

A  trifler  all,  he  loves  to  sit 

The  very  sovereign  of  the  Pit ; 

To  terrify  the  Tragic  Mnse 

He  talks  about  the  dancers'  shoes, 

And  raves  of  Vestris'  eyes  of  jet 

And  ^[ercandotti's  pirouette ; 

A  trifler  all,  he  studies  bows, 

Makes  earnest  love  in  whispered  vows, 

And  talks  about  the  shafts  that  fly 

From  Phillis'  or  Nesera's  eye  ; 

A  trifler  all,  he  kills  an  hour 

In  wandering  through  Thalia's  bower. 

Shakes  his  wild  harp  with  frantic  mien. 

And  gels  dead  drunk  with  Ilippocrene ; 

And  so  becomes  an  ancient  Beau, 

The  slave  of  Venus,  and  the  Eow  ; 

And  prates,  and  puns,  and  stares  away. 

And  stupefies  from  day  to  day ; 

Till  Death  cuts  short  the  quibbling  knave, 

And  sinks  the  merry — in  tlie  Grave ! 


33ti  EPIGKAMMATON   LIBEK. 


n. 


KuGATOR  merus,  at  nee  inficetus, 
Tuas,  et  Veneris,  fero  catenas. 
Nugas  mille  dabo,  dabo  libenter, 
Gemmas,  pallia,  Chia  vina,  pisces, 
Paasti  florea  serta,  serta  Pindi. 
Nugas  mille  loquor,  loquor  disertus, 
Preces,  blanditias,  jocos,  amores, 
Quotquot  sint,  Veneres  Oupidinesque. 
Tu  nugas  mihi  mille  conferenti, 
Tu  nugas  mihi  mille  garrienti, 
Compresso  memoras,  Chloe,  susurro 
Aras,  flammea,  nuptias,  pudorem, 
Et  quantum  est  hominum  severiorum. 
Aut  nugas  precor  aut  nihil !  valeto ; 
Nimis  seria,  mi  Chloe,  laboras. 

III. 

Cavebis,  Abra,  dum  Cupidinum  curse 
Periculosis  te  morantur  in  nugis ; 
Dum  Veneris  arma  ludicro  cies  bello, 
Nutus,  susurros,  lacrymas,  jocos,  risus, 
Lyraque  ssepe,  ssepe  melleo  cantu 
Formosa  mentes  implicas  reluctantes. 
Semper  Venus  uulosa !  serium  quiddam 
Nugaris,  Abra,  qu^e  venusta  nugaris. 


EPIGBAMMATON    LIBEK.  335 


IV. 

CoDEUs  ait,  promens  epigrammata, — "Nil  nisi 
nugse  I" 
Nostra  tuse  nngse  snnt  mala, — nos  legimus. 


SCRIBIMUS  IKDOCTI  DOCTIQUB. 
I. 

Yebe  novo,  quo  prata  tepeut,  ardentque  poetfe, 

Et  citbarse,  et  celeres  suave  loquuntur  aqua?, 
Serus  Apollinea  sternit  se  Daphnis  in  umbra, 

Et  parat  intonso  thura  precesque  Deo. 
"  Phoabe  pater,  dum  tanta  cohors  te  poscit  amat- 
que, 

Dum  rapiunt  laurus  tot  fera  labra  tuas, — 
Dum  totoque  foro,  totoque  impune  Suburra, 

Baccbantur  tristes,  esuriuntque,  chori, — 
Dum  resonant  Aganippeo  loca  cuncta  turaultu, 

Templa  Deum,  monies,  antra,  macella,  casfp.— 
Dum  nihil  est  nisi — 'eara   Venus!' — 'fonnuse 
Cupido!' 

Angor,  amor,  cineres,  vulnera,  mella,  rosjp,— 


336  EPIGEAMMATON    LIBEK. 

Quid  valeat  tanta  Daphnin  secernere  turla  ? 

Unde  novo  discat  Daplmis  honore  frui  ? 
Quid  faciam  ut  propria  decorem  mea  tenrpora 
lauru  ? 

Die  mihi,  quid  faciam  ?" — dixit  Apollo, "  tace ! " 

(This  was  ono  of  tlie  Cambridge  Prize  Epigrams  for  1824.) 


TRANSLATION  OF   THE   FOREaOING. 

The  fields  in  spring  were  blossoming  with  poets 

and  with  flowers, 
And  silver  streams,  and  golden  dreams,  were 

babbling  in  the  bowers, 
"When  Daphnis  lay  at  close  of  day  within  a  shady 

hollow. 
And  filled  the  air  with  smoke  and  prayer,  in 

honor  of  Apollo. 
"Far-darting  King  of  pipe  and  string, — while 

such  a  host  of  suits 
Are  made  to  thee,  unceasingly,  for  laurels  and 

for  lutes, — 
"While  far  and  wide,  on  every  side,  from  Bond 

street  to  the  Fleet, 
Some  rhyme  for  praise,  and  some  for  bays,  and 

multitudes  for  meat, — 


EPIGKAMMA.TON   LIBEE.  337 

While  verse  and  prose  our  feet  enclose,  what- 
ever scene  we  search, 

In  feast,  and  fair,  and  market  square,  in  Par- 
liament and  church, — 

While  Paphian  smiles,  and  Cupid's  wiles,  fill 
all  our  ears  with  vanity. 

And  rosy  chains,  and  pleasing  pains,  and  fid- 
dles and  insanity — 

By  what  new  art  shall  Daphnis  start  from  out 
the  herd  of  fools? 

What  wreath  or  name  shall  Daphnis  claim  un- 
heard of  in  the  schools  ? 

What  shall  I  leave,  that  fame  may  weave  a 
garland  all  my  own?" 

"Leave!"  said  the  God,  with  fragrant  nod,— 
"Why,  leave  it  aU  alone  1" 

n. 

SiiTPLES  and  sages 

All  write  in  these  pages ! — 
As  many  a  weary  witling  knows, 
I'm  Susan's  Album !     I  enclose 
Within  my  green  morocco  covers 
The  triflings  of  a  score  of  lovers, 
Eoses,  Ulies,  sighings,  sadness. 
All  the  armory  of  madness. 
In  Susan's  Album, — for  it's  true 
That  Susan  is  a  little  blue, — 
Vol.  11.-22 


338  TEAKSLATIONS. 

All  sorts  of  people  rave  and  rant, 
Both  those  who  can,  and  those  who  can't ; 
And  Susan  smiles  on  each  sweet  ditty 
In  which  her  witless  slaves  grow  witty, 
And  says  to  aU  her  scribbling  suitors — 
"  Queen  Venus  is  the  best  of  tutors!" 


TRANSLATIONS. 

SONa   OF  THE   SAILORS  OP  SAL  AMIS. 
(From  Sophocles,  Ajax,  v.  596.) 

Fats  Salamis,  the  billow's  roar 

"Wanders  around  thee  yet ; 
And  sailors  gaze  upon  thy  shore 

Firm  in  the  ocean  set. 
Thy  son  is  in  a  foreign  clime 

Where  Ida  feeds  her  countless  flocks, 

Far  from  thy  dear  remembered  rocks, 
Worn  by  the  waste  of  time, — 
Comfortless,  nameless,  hopeless, — save 
In  the  dark  prospect  of  the  yawning  grave. 

And  Ajax,  in  his  deep  distress 

Allied  to  our  disgrace, 
Hath  cherished  in  his  loneliness 

The  bosom  friend's  embrace. 


TRANSLATIONS.  339 

Frenzy  hath  seized  thy  dearest  son, 
Who  from  thy  shores  in  glory  came 
The  first  in  valour  and  in  fame ; 
The  deeds  that  lie  hath  done 
Seem  hostile  all  to  hostile  eyes ; 
The  sons  of  Atreus  see  them,  and  despise. 

Woe  to  the  mother,  in  her  close  of  day. 
Woe  to  her  desolate  heart,  and  temples  gray, 

When  she  shall  hear 
Her  loved  one's  story  whispered  in  her  ear ! 

"Woe,  woe!"  will  be  the  cry, — 
No  quiet  murmur,  like  the  tremulous  wail 
Of  the  lone  bird,  the  querulous  nightingale, — 

But  shrieks  that  fly 
Piercing,  and  wild,  and  loud,  shall  mourn  the 

tale ; 
And  she  will  beat  her  breast  and  rend  her  hair. 
Scattering  the  silver  locks  that  time  hath  left 
her  there. 

Oh !  when  the  pride  of  Groecia's  noblest  race 
Wanders,  as  now,  in  darkness  and  disgrace, 

When  Eeason's  day 
Sets  rayless — joyless — quenched  in  cold  decay, 

Better  to  die,  and  sleep 
The  never-waking  sleep,  than  linger  on, 
And  dare  to  live,  when  the  soul's  life  is  gone; 

But  tliou  slialt  weep, 


840  TEAlfSLATIONS. 

Thou  wretched  father,  for  thy  dearest  son, 
Thy  best  beloved,  by  inward  Furies  toi-n, 
The  deepest,  bitterest  curse,  thine  ancient  house 
hath  borne! 

(l^OVESIBEE  29,  1S21.) 


THE   DEATH    OP   AJAX* 
(From  Ovid's  Metamorphoses.) 

The  Kings  were  moved ;  conviction  hung 
On  soft  Persuasion's  honeyed  tongue; 
And  Victory  to  Wisdom  gave 
The  weapons  of  the  fallen  brave. 

That  Chief,  unshrinking,  unsubdued, 
Had  grasped  his  spear  in  fire  and  fend. 

And  never  dreamed  of  fear ; 
Had  stemmed  fierce  Hector's  wild  alarm,— 
Had  braved  the  Thunderer's  red  riglit  arm  - 

But  Eage  is  Victor  here. 
By  nothing  could  the  hero  fall 
Save  by  the  pangs  that  conrLuer  all ! 

*  This  and  the  two  succeeding  pieces  were  written  in 
College  Examination. 


TKAN8LATION8.  341 

He  snatched  the  falchion  from  his  side ; 

And,  "This  at  least  is  mine,"  he  cried, 

"  This  e'en  Ulysses  will  not  crave : 

But  let  it  dig  its  master's  grave : 

In  many  a  glorious  field  of  yore 

This  blade  has  blushed  with  Phrygian  gore, 

And  when  mine  own  shall  glisten,  mine 

Shall  well  become  its  warlike  shine. 

Ajax  shall  fall  by  Ajax'  hand, 

A  warrior  by  a  warrior's  brand." 

He  spoke,  and  smiling  sternly,  pressed 
The  weapon  to  his  struggling  breast. 
Too  feeble  was  the  hero's  strength 
To  force  the  weapon's  chilling  length 

From  out  the  reeking  wound ; 
The  blood  upon  its  gory  track 
In  rushing  eddies  bore  it  back ; 

And  on  the  moistened  ground 
There  bloomed  (as  poets  love  to  tell), 
"Where'er  the  gushing  dewdrops  fell, 

A  melancholy  Flower ; 
The  same  fair  flower  had  wept  beside 
The  turf  where  Hyacinthus  died  ; 

And,  from  that  fatal  hour. 
It  syllables  on  every  leaf 
The  record  of  a  double  grief. 

(May,  1S-J2.) 


342  TRANSLATIONS. 


JENEAS  AND  THE  SIBYL. 

(From  ViRG.  uSn.  vi  255.) 

But  look,  where  first  the  God  of  Day 
From  Heaven  pours  out  his  golden  ray, 

Earth  groans  a  sullen  groan  ; 
Shake  the  old  monarchs  of  the  woods, 
And  ban-dogs  from  their  solitudes 

Shriek  out  their  ominous  moan. 
"  Avaunt!"  the  shuddering  Sibyl  cries, 
"  Avaunt,  ye  unpermitted  eyes! 
And  thou,  JEneas,  twine  thine  hand. 
Fearless,  around  thy  ready  brand, 

And  come  in  darkness  on  !" 
She  spoke,  and  through  the  cavern  led  : 
He  followed  with  as  firm  a  tread. 

They  went,  unseen,  through  cold  and  cloud, 
"Where  Darkness  flung  her  solemn  shroud — 

A  dim,  unearthly  shade : 
Mirk  was  the  air,  as  when  through  night 
The  moon  looks  down  with  partial  light, 
"When  Jupiter  to  earth  and  heaven 
A  drear  and  viewless  veil  hath  given, 
And,  in  the  calm  obscure  of  even. 

All  things  and  colours  fade. 


TKANSLATIONS.  34:3 

"  Ye  Gods,  wliom  destiny  hath  made 
The  Guardians  of  the  voiceless  sliade, — 
The  voiceless  shade  of  parted  souls, 
Wliere  Phlegcthon  forever  rolls, 

And  gloomy  Chaos  reigns, — 
Forgive  me  that  with  living  eye 
I  look  upon  your  privacy, 
And  rend  the  sulphurous  canopy 

Which  clothes  your  dark  domains!" 

(May,  1822.) 


THE  HOOPOE'S  INVOCATION  TO  THE 
NIGHTINGALE. 

(From  the  Birds  of  Akistopiianes,  I.  200.) 

Wakeit,  dear  one,  from  thy  slumbers ; 
Pour  again  those  holy  numbers. 
Which  thou  warblest  there  alone 
In  a  heaven-instructed  tone, 
Mourning  from  this  leafy  shrine 
Lost — lost  Itys,  mine  and  thine. 
In  th^melancholy  cry 
Of  a  motlier's  agony ; 
Echo,  ere  the  murmurs  fade, 
Bears  them  from  tlie  vew-tree's  sliade 


3M  TEANSLATIOliTS. 

To  tlie  throne  of  Jove ;  and  there, 
Phoebus  with  his  golden  hair 
Listens  long,  and  loves  to  suit 
To  his  ivory-mounted  lute 
Thy  sad  music  ; — at  the  sound 
All  the  gods  come  dancing  round, 
And  a  sympathetic  song 
Peals  from  the  immortal  throng, 

(Septembke,  1826.) 


FROM  LUCRETIUS,  Bk.  ii.  1  1-33. 

Oh,  sweet  it  is  to  listen  on  the  shore 

When  the  wild  tempest  mocks  the   seaboy'- 
cry; 
And  sweet  to  mark  the  tumult  and  the  roar 

When  distant  battle  stalks  in  thunder  by; 

And  do  not  say  another's  agony 
Is  happiness  to  us ! — oh,  rather  deem 

That  the  mind  loves,  in  its  o^vn  fantasy, 
To  wield  the  weapons  and  to  scream  the  scream, 
And  tlien  to  wake  from  death,  and  feel  it  was  a 
di'eam. 


TKAJSfBLATIONS.  345 

But  uaught  is  sweeter  tliau  to  liuld  our  state, 
Uncliangeable,  on  Wisdom's  guarded  keep, 

And  look  in  silence  on  the  low  and  great, 

Who,  in  their  sackcloth  or  their  purple,  creep 
Beneath  the  summit  of  the  viewless  steep  : 

They  dare  the  deserts,  and  they  tempt  the  waves, 
And   serve,  and  mouarchize,  and  laugh  and 
weep, 

While  Fortune  scofis  alike  at  lords  and  slaves, 

And  decks  the  perilous  path  with  sceptres,  aad 
with  graves. 

Oil,    wretched   souls !    oh,    weak    and    wasted 
breath, 

Painful  in  birth,  and  loathsome  in  decay  I 
Eternal  clouds  are  round  us :  doubt  and  death 

Lie  dark  between  to-morrow  and  to-day ; 

And  thus  our  span  of  mourning  flits  away ! 
If  the  veins  glisten  and  the  pulses  glow, 

If  the  free  spirits  innocently  play. 
Say,  wilt  thou  seek  for  more?  vain  mortal,  no  !' 
Wliat  more  can  Dust  demand,  or  Destiny  bo- 
stow  ? 

Yet  Nature  hath  more  blessings,  her  own  joys. 
Unearned  by  labour,  and  unsought  by  prayer : 

Be  wise  to-day  ! — perhaps  no  golden  boys 

O'er  the  thronged  banquet  fling  the  torches' 
glare. 


346  TRANSLATIONS. 

No  rich  aroma  loads  tlie  languid  air, 
No  burnislied  silver  gleams  along  the  hall 

111  dazzling  whiteness,  no  fond  lute  is  there 
To  wreathe  the  sweetness  of  its  magic  thrall 
O'er  listening  ears,  rapt  hearts,  at  some  high 
festival ; — 

Yet  Nature's  fondest  sons  and  fairest  daughte; "s 
On  her  green  bosom  love  at  eve  to  lie, 

Where  the  lone  rippling  of  the  quiet  waters 
Goes  syllabling  all  sweets,  and  hoar  and  high 
The  old  oak  lends  his  solemn  canopy. 

"What  do  they  reck  beneath  their  tranquil  bowers 
Of  guilt  or  grief? — then  happiest,  when  the 
sky 

Laughs  in  the  glad  spring-dawning,  and  the  hours 

Dress  every  hill  and  vale  in  herbs  and  odorous 
flowers ! 

(1826.) 


8TA2JS    PEDE   IN    UNO.  347 


STANS  PEDE  IN  UNO. 

Kol  vvv  iv  'Apei 

fiapTvpriaai.  Kev  iroAij  *Ai- 

avTos  op9ui9el<Ta  vavrai<; 
€V  7roAu</)6dpu)  2aAa/xt5  Aios  /ifijSpa). 

Pindar,  Isth.  v.  61. 

NovENA  Pindi  tnrba,  licet  Jovis 
Antiqua  cessent  fulmina  vatibus 
Mentita,  Divor unique  voces 
Per  vacuum  taceant  Olympum, 

At  usque  clivo  vos  Heliconio 
Ludum  vetustura  ludite,  vos  aquas 
Libate  sollcnnes,  lyrarum 

Vos  doming  dominteque  vatum 

Aaditel  Nymphs  Pierides,  quibus 
Cordi  est  celebres  martis  bonoribus 
Ornare  reges,  et  triumpbos 
Aouio  rosouare  plectro, 

Vos  a  quietis  vos  milii  montibus 
Adeste,  XympbiB!  ferte  per  inclytas 
Urbes,  et  antiqua  sacratos 
Relligione  domos  ;  juvabit 


?48  STAXS    PKDE    m    UNO. 

Cfelestibus  fervere  furoribiis, 
Jiivabit  umbras  inter  et  abditoa 
Errare  Manes,  quos  perennis 
Ambit  Honor,  meritteque  landis 

Corolla.     Fallorne  an  videor  tna 
Solers  Ulysseu  mcenia?  non  latet 
Larissa,  non  Spartana  pubes, 
Non  Agamemnonioe  MycenjB. 

Insanientes  territus  audio 
Fluctus  Athenarum  ;  haurio  amabilem 
Sublimis  auram ;  leutiori 
Pervolito  Salamina  penn4 ; 

Inter  frementes  Oceani  minas 
Dirosque  ventos  usque  morabitur 
Dilecta  Musarum  choreis 
Insula,  perpetuaque  lauru 

Insignis,  ex  quo  cedere  nescium 
Heroa  celsum  raisit  in  Ilium 

Quem  Fama  quern  palnuB  decorus 
Egit  Amor  per  acuta  belli. 

JSTon  ille  cara  pro  patria  necera 
Obire  segnis,  cum  furiosior 
Omnis  super  Graias  volaret 
Troja  rates:  furit  inter  arma 


STAN3   PEDE   IN   UNO,  34-9 

Interque  csedes  Hector,  et  horrido 
Clamore  vires  deficientium 
Invictus  accendit — "  Quid  atri 
Martis  opus  trepidabit  olim 

Trojan  a  virtus?  ibitis,  ibitis, 
Fortes  amioi,  per  medias  iieces 
TJtcunque  pnecedant  secandi 
Signa  Jovis;  jacet  ille  tandem 

Audax  Achilles,  et  sapientior 
Tuto  latescit  mersus  in  otio : 
Incumbite  hoati !  iam  decoro 
i!^ec  mo'. «;  ^06  I'oquies  labori 

Donee  labantes  Grajugenum  rates 
Incensa  late  flamma  voraverit, 
Vastumque  Neptuni  barathrum 
Sorpserit  Argolicos  latrones." 

(1822.) 


SONC^^. 


LORD  ROLAND. 

Lord  Rolaxd  rose,  and  went  to  mass, 

And  doifed  his  mourning  weed  ; 
And  bade  them  bring  a  looking-glass, 

And  saddle  fast  a  steed; 
I'll  deck  with  gems  my  bonnet's  loop, 

And  wear  a  feather  fine, 
And  when  lorn  lovers  sit  and  droop, 

"Why,  I  will  sit  and  dine ; — 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily! 

And  fill  the  cup  of  wine. 

Though  Elgitha  be  thus  untrue, 

Adele  is  beauteous  yet ; 
And  he  that's  baffled  by  the  blue 

May  bow  before  the  jet ; 
So  welcome,  welcome,  hall  or  heatli ! 

So  welcome,  shower  or  shine  ! 
And  wither  there,  thou  willow  wreath, 

Thou  never  shalt  be  mine ; — 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily! 

And  fill  the  cup  of  wine. 

Proud  Elgitha!  a  health  to  thee, 
A  health  in  brimming  gold, 
Vor..  IT.— 23 


354  YES    OK    NO. 

And  store  of  lovers  after  me, 

As  honest,  and  less  cold ; 
My  hand  is  on  my  bugle-horn, 

My  boat  is  on  the  brine; 
If  ever  gallant  died  of  scorn 

I  shall  not  die  of  thine ; — 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily ! 

And  fill  the  cup  of  wine. 

(1824.) 


YES  OR  NO. 


I. 
The  Baron  de  Vaux  hath  a  valiant  crest,— 

My  Lady  is  fair  and  free  ; 
The  Baron  is  full  of  mirth  and  jest, — 

My  Lady  is  full  of  glee ; 
But  their  path,  we  know,  is  a  path  of  woe, 

And  many  the  reason  guess, — 
The  Baron  will  ever  mutter  "^o," 

When  my  Lady  whispers  "Yes.' 


The  Baron  will  pass  the  wine-cup  round, — 

My  Lady  forth  will  roam  ; 
The  Baron  will  out  with  horse  and  hound,— 

My  Lady  sits  at  home  ; 


YES    OK   NO.  355 

The  Baron  will  go  to  draw  the  bow, 

My  Lady  will  go  to  chess ; 
And  the  Baron  will  ever  mutter  "  N'o,'' 

When  my  Lady  whispers  "Yes." 

III. 
The  Baron  hath  ears  for  a  lovely  lay, 

If  my  Lady  sings  it  not ; 
The  Baron  is  blind  to  a  beauteous  day, 

If  it  beam  in  my  Lady's  grot ; 
The  Baron  bows  low  to  a  furbelow. 

If  it  be  not  my  Lady's  dress  ; 
And  the  Baron  will  ever  mutter  "No," 

"When  my  Lady  whispers  "  Yes.'' 

IV. 

Now  saddle  my  steed,  and  helm  my  head. 

Be  ready  in  the  porch  ; 
Stout  Guy,  with  a  ladder  of  silken  thread, 

And  trusty  Will,  with  a  torch  : 
The  wind  may  blow,  the  torrent  flow. 

No  matter, — on  we  press  ; 
I  never  can  near  the  Baron's  "No," 

When  my  Lady  whispers  "  Yes." 

(182T.) 


356        TELL    HDI   I    LOVE    HIM   YET. 


TELL  HIM  I  LOVE  HIM  YET. 

I. 

Tell  Mm  I  love  Mm  yet, 

As  in  that  joyous  time ; 
Tell  him  I  ne'er  forget, 

Though  memory  now  be  crime  ; 
Tell  him,  when  sad  moonlight 

Is  over  earth  and  sea, 
I  dream  of  him  by  night, — 

He  must  not  dream  of  me ! 

IL 

Tell  him  to  go  Avhere  Fame 

Looks  proudly  on  the  brave ; 
Tell  him  to  win  a  name 

By  deeds  on  land  and  wave  ; 
Green,  green  upon  his  brow 

The  laurel  wreath  shall  be  ; 
Although  the  laurel  now 

May  not  be  shared  witli  me. 

III. 

Tell  him  to  smile  again 

In  Pleasure's  dazzling  throng, 

To  wear  another's  chain. 
To  praise  another's  song ; 


WHERE   IS    MISS    MYRTLE?  357 

Before  the  loveliest  there 

I'd  have  him  bend  his  knee, 
And  breathe  to  her  the  prayer 

He  used  to  breatlie  to  me. 


And  tell  him,  day  by  day, 

Life  looks  to  me  more  dim ; 
I  falter  when  I  pray, 

Although  I  pray  for  him ; 
And  bid  him,  when  I  die, 

Come  to  our  favourite  tree ; 
I  shall  not  hear  him  sigh, — 

Then  let  him  sigh  for  me! 


(July  20, 1829.) 


WHERE   IS  MISS   MYRTLE? 

Air — "Sweet  Kitty  Clover." 

I. 

\YnEr.E  is  Miss  Myrtle  ?  can  any  one  tell  ? 

Wliere  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone? 
She  flirts  with  another,  I  know  very  well, 

And — I  am  left  alone ! 
She  flies  to  the  window  when  Arundel  ringa,- 


358  WHEKE   IS    MISS    ilTETLE  ■" 

She's   all   over    smiles  when    Lord  Archibald 

sings, — 
It's  plain  that  her  Onpid  has  two  pair  of  wings : 

Where  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone  ? 
Her  love  and  my  love  are  different  things ; 

And  1 — am  left  all  alone  1 

n. 
I  brought  her,  one  morning,  a  rose  for  her  brow ; 

"Where  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone  ? 
She  told  me  such  horrors  were  never  worn  now ; 

And  I — am  left  all  alone ! 
But  I  saw  her  at  night  with  a  rose  in  her  hair, 
And  I  guess  who  it  came  from — of  course  I  don't 

care! 
We  all  know  that  girls  are  as  false  as  they're 
fair; 
Where  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone? 
I'm  sure  the  lieutenant's  a  horrible  bear, 
And  I — am  left. all  alone! 

in. 
Whenever  we  go  on  the  Downs  for  a  ride, — 

Where  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone  ? 
She  looks  for  another  to  trot  by  her  side  : 

And  I — am  left  all  alone ! 
And  whenever  I  take  her  down  stairs  from  a  bull. 
She  nods  to  some  puppy  to  put  on  her  shawl : 
I'm  0  peaceable  man,  and  I  don't  like  a  brawl ; — 

Where  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone  ? 


WHERE   IS   MISS   aiYETLE  ?  359 

But  I  would  give  a  trifle  to  horsewhip  them  all ; 
And  I — am  left  all  aloue  1 

IV. 

She  tells  me  her  mother  belongs  to  the  sect, — 

Where  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone? 
Which  holds  that  all  waltzing  is  quite  incorrect : 

And  I — am  left  all  alone ! 
But  a  fire's  in  my  heart,  a  fire's  in  my  brain, 
When    she    waltzes    away    with     Sir    Pheliin 

O'Shane ; 
I  don't  think  I  ever  can  ask  her  again : 

Where  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone  ? 
And,  Lordl  since  the  summer  she's  grown  very 
plain; 

And  I — am  left  all  alone  1 

T. 

She  said  that  she  liked  me  a  twelvemonth  ago ; 

Where  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone? 
And  how  should  I  guess  that  she'd  torture  me  so  ? 

And  I — am  left  all  alone! 
Some  day  she'll  find  out  it  was  not  very  wise 
To  laugh  at  the  breath  of  a  true  lover's  sighs  ; 
Aftor  all,  Fanny  Myrtle  is  not  such  a  prize : 

Where  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone  ? — 
Louisa  Dalrymple  has  exquisite  eyes; 

And  I'll  be  no  longer  alone  1 

(1831.) 


360  THE   CONFESSION. 


THE   CONFESSION. 

I. 

Father- — Fatlier — I  confess — 

Here  he  kneeled  and  siglied, 
When  the  moon's  soft  loveliness 

Slept  on  surf  and  tide. 
In  my  ear  the  prayer  he  prayed 

Seems  to  echo  yet ; 
But  the  answer  that  I  made — 

Father — I  forget ! 

Ora  pro  me ! 


Father — Father — I  confess — 

Precious  gifts  he  brought; 
Satin  sandal,  silken  dress ; 

Richer  ne'er  were  wrought ; 
Gems  that  make  the  daylight  dim, 

Plumes  in  gay  gold  set ; — 
But  the  gaud  I  gave  to  him — 

Father — I  forget ! 

Ora  pro  me ! 


LAST    WORDS.  3G1 

III. 
Father — father — I  confess — 

He's  my  beauty's  thrall, 
In  the  lonely  wilderness, 

In  the  festive  hall ; 
All  his  dreams  are  aye  of  me, 

Since  our  young  hearts  met ; 
"What  my  own  may  sometimes  be — 

Father — I  forget ! 

Or  a  pro  me  ! 


LAST  WORDS. 

I. 

Fare  thee  well,  love, — fare  thee  well ! 

From  the  world  I  pass  away, 
"Wliere  the  brightest  things  that  dwell 

All  deceive^_and  all  decay; 
Cheerfully  I  fall  asleep, 

As  by  some  mysterious  spell ; 
Yet  I  weep,  to  see  thee  weep  ; 

Fare  thee  well,  love, — fare  thee  M-ell ! 


\Q2  LAST    WOKDS. 


Tell  of  me,  love,  tell  of  me ! 

Not  amid  the  heartless  throng; 
Not  where  Passion  hends  the  knee,— 

Not  where  Pleasure  trills  the  song , 
But  when  some  most  cherished  one 

By  your  side  at  eve  shall  be, 
Ere  your  twilight  tales  are  done, 

Tell  of  me,  love, — tell  of  me ! 

m. 

Leave  me  now,  love, — leave  me  now 

Not  with  sorrow,  not  with  sighs ; 
Not  with  clouds,  love,  on  thy  brow. 

Not  with  tears,  love,  in  tliine  eyes  ; 
"We  shall  meet,  we  know  not  where, 

And  be  blest,  we  dream  not  how ; 
"With  a  kiss,  and  with  a  prayer, 

Leave  me  now,  love, — leave  me  now  I 

(Apeil,  1832.) 


THE   KUNAWAT.  3(33 


THE  RUNAWAY. 

I. 

Dark  clouds  are  shading 

The  day, — the  day; 
Sunlight  is  fading 

A-svay, — away ; 
I've  won  from  the  warden 

The  key, — the  key, 
And  the  steed's  in  the  garden 

For  me, — for  me. 

II. 
Locks  of  ray  mother, 

So  white, — so  white, — 
Frowns  of  my  father, 

Good  night,— good  night  I 
From  turret  and  tower 

I'm  free, — I'm  fi-ee, 
And  your  rage  has  no  power 

O'er  me, — o'er  me. 

III. 
Shriller  is  grieving 

The  blast,— the  blast; 
Lo,  the  waves  heaving 

At  last, — at  last  1 


364  LONG  AGO. 

'Twas  liere  lie,  the  bold  one, 
Should  be, — should  be; 

And  lingers  he.,  cold  one ! 
Ah,  me  ! — ah,  me ! 


Vain  is  thy  chiding, 

Foi-  hark ! — for  hark ! 
Hither  'tis  gliding, 

The  bark!— the  bark! 
Joyously  over 

The  sea, — the  sea. 
She'll  waft  my  brave  lover 

With  me, — with  me ! 


(Apkil,  1832.) 


LONG   AGO. 

I. 
Wk  were  children  together!     Oh,  brighter  than 
mine 
Are  the  eyes  that  are  looking  their  love  on 
you  now ; 
And  nobler  than  I  are  the  maidens  that  twine 
The  scarf  for  your  breast,  and  the  wreath  for 
your  brow. 


LONG   AGO.  365 

Be  haj)py,  my  brother,  wherever  you  will ; 
Good  speed  to  your  courser,  good  luck  to  your 
bow ; 
But  will  you  not — will  you  not  think  of  me  still, 
As  you  thought  of  me  once, — long  ago — long 
ago? 

II. 
We  were  children  together!     I  know  you  will 
dream 
Of  the  rock  and  the  valley,  the  cottage  and 
tree ; 
Of  the  bird  on  the  brake,  of  the  boat  on  tlie 
stream, 
Of  the  book  and  the  lute,  of  my  roses  and  me ; 
When  Pleasure  deceives  you,  and  young  Hope 
departs. 
And  the  pulse  of  Ambition  beats  weary  and 
low, 
My  brother — my  brother — come  back   to    our 
hearts : 
Let  us  be  what  we  were, — long  ago — long  ajro ! 

(August,  1S32,) 


366    I  EEMEMBER,  I  EEMEMBER. 


I   REMEMBER,  I   EEMEMBER. 

I. 

I  EEMEMBER — I  remember 

How  my  childhood  fleeted  by, — 
The  mirth  of  its  December, 

And  the  warmth  of  its  July  ; 
On  my  brow,  love — on  my  bi-ow,  love, 

There  are  no  signs  of  care  ; 
But  my  pleasures  are  not  now,  love, 

"What  Childhood's  pleasures  were. 

II. 

Then  the  bowers — then  the  bowers 

Were  blithe  as  blithe  could  be  ; 
And  all  their  radiant  flowers 

"Were  coronals  for  me  : 
Gems  to-night,  love — gems  to-night,  love, 

Are  gleaming  in  my  hair  ; 
But  they  are  not  half  so  bright,  love, 

As  Childhood's  roses  were. 


I  was  singing — ^I  was  singing, 
And  my  songs  were  idle  words ; 

But  from  my  heart  was  springmg 
"Wild  mnsic  like  a  bird's : 


SHADOWS   OF   SADNESS.  367 

Now  I  sing,  love — now  I  sing,  love, 

A  fine  Italian  air  ; 
But  it's  not  so  glad  a  thing,  love, 

As  Childhood's  ballads  were  ! 

IV. 

I  was  merry — I  was  merry 

When  my  little  lovers  came, 
With  a  lily,  or  a  cherry. 

Or  a  new-invented  game  ; 
Now  I've  you,  love — -now  I've  you,  love. 

To  kneel  before  me  there  ; 
But  you  know  you're  not  so  true,  love. 

As  Childhood's  lovers  were  ! 

(JUNB,  1883.) 


SHADOWS   OF   SADNESS. 

I. 

Shadows  of  sadness 

Come  o'er  thy  young  bride ; 
They  cloud  all  her  gladness. 

They  calm  all  her  pride  ; 
A  bright  home  I  leave,  love ; 

From  dear  friends  I  fly ; 
In  bliss  I  must  grieve,  love ; 

In  bliss  let  me  sigh  1 


368  SHADOWS    OF    SADNESS. 


On  the  green  bowers 

That  echoed  my  song, — 
On  all  the  glad  flowers 

I  cherished  so  long, — 
On  yon  merry  brook,  love, 

In  light  gushing  by, 
I  look  my  last  look,  love ; 

For  these  let  me  sigh  ! 


There  my  gay  brother 

Less  joyous  is  grown  ; 
And  there  my  fond  mother 

Sits  pensive  and  lone  ; 
Eoam — rest  where  I  will,  love, 

Beneath  a  fair  sky, 
They'll  sigh  for  me  still,  love  ; 

For  them  let  me  sigh  ! 

IV. 

Though  I  forget  not 

The  name  I  bear  now. 
And  though  I  regret  not 

The  ring  or  the  vow, 
A  cloud's  on  my  heart,  love, 

A  tear's  in  mine  eye ; 
Most  dear  as  thou  art,  love, 

To-day  let  me  sigh  1 

(Deckmber  1G,  1S3C.) 


CHARADES  AND  ENIGMAS. 


Vol.  2,- -24 


CHARADES  AND  ENIGMAS.* 

I. 

The  First  is  for  love  and  thee,  Mary, — 
The  First  is  for  love  and  thee  ; 

And  so  firmly  hold 

Those  links  of  gold, 
That  the  Second  it  never  shall  be — Mary ! 

The  Second  is  ever  free,  iMary, — 
Free  as  the  foaming  brine ; 
As  the  fires  that  fly 
From  the  poet's  eye, 
Or  the  laugh  that  speaks  in  thine — Mary  ! 

Though  the  First  be  a  wayward  thing,  Mary,- 
Though  a  wayward  thing  it  be, 

"When  thought  hath  power 

In  the  midnight  hour. 
Be  sure  it  is  efer  with  thee — Mary  1 

*  Should  the  solutions  be  required,  thoy  will  be  found  given 
in  the  Table  of  Contents  to  this  volume. 


372  ENIGMA. 


11. 

ENIGMA. 

Theotjgh  thy  short  and  shadowy  span 
I  am  with  thee,  Child  of  Man  ; 
With  thee  still,  from  first  to  last, 
In  pain  and  pleasure,  feast  and  fast, 
At  thy  cradle  and  thy  death, 
Thine  earliest  wail,  and  dying  breath- 
Seek  not  thou  to  shun  or  save, 
On  the  earth,  or  in  the  grave ; 
The  worm  and  I,  the  worm  and  I, 
In  the  grave  together  lie. 

(NOYEMBEB,  1S21.) 


ENIGMA,  373 


m. 

Sns  Htlaey  charged  at  Agincourt, — 

Sooth  'twas  an  awful  day ! 
And  though  in  that  old  age  of  sport 
The  rufflers  of  the  camp  and  court 

Had  little  time  to  prav, 
'Tis  said  Sir  Hilary  muttered  there 
Two  sj'Uables  by  way  of  prayer. 

My  First  to  all  the  brave  and  proud 

"Who  see  to-morrow's  sun  ; 
My  Next  with  her  cold  and  quiet  cloud 
To  those  who  find  their  dewy  shroud 

Before  to-day's  be  done ; 
And  both  together  to  all  blue  eyes 
That  weep  when  a  warrior  nobly  dies. 


374 


ENIGMA. 


IV. 

ENIGMA. 

A  Templae  kneeled  at  a  friar's  knee ; 
He  was  a  comely  youth  to  see, 
With  curling  locks  and  forehead  high, 
And  flushing  cheek,  and  flashing  eye  ; 
And  the  monk  was  as  jolly  and  large  a  man 
As  ever  laid  lip  to  a  convent  can. 

Or  called  for  a  contribution — 
As  ever  read,  at  midnight  hour, 
Confessional  in  lady's  hower, 
Ordained  for  a  peasant  the  penance  wliip, 
Or  spoke  for  a  noble's  venial  slip 

A  venal  absolution. 

"  Oh,  Father !  in  the  dim  twilight 
I  have  sinned  a  grievous  sin  to-night ; 
And  I  feel  hot  pain  e'en  now  begun 
For  the  fearful  murder  I  have  done. 

"  I  rent  my  victim's  coat  of  green  ; 
I  pierced  his  neck  with  my  dagger  keen  ; 
The  red  stream  mantled  high ; 


ENIGMA.  375 

I  gi-asped  him,  Father,  all  the  while 
With  shaking  hand,  and  feverish  smile, 
And  said  my  jest,  and  sang  my  song, 
And  laughed  ray  laughter,  loud  and  long, 
Until  his  glass  was  dry  1 

"  Thougli  he  was  rich,  and  very  old, 

I  did  not  touch  a  grain  of  gold, 

But  the  blood  I  drank  from  the  bubbling  vein 

Hath  left  on  my  lip  a  purple  stain." 

"  My  son  !  my  son  !  for  this  thou  hast  done, 
Though  the  sands  of  thy  life  for  aye  should  run," 

The  merry  monk  did  say ; 
"  Though  thine  eye  be  bright,  and  thine  heart 

be  light. 
Hot  spirits  shall  haunt  thee  all  the  night, 

Blue  devils  all  the  day." 

The  thunders  of  the  Church  were  ended. 
Back  on  his  way  the  Templar  wended ; 
But  the  name  of  him  the  Templar  slew 
Was  more  than  the  Inquisition  knew. 


376  CHAKADE. 


My  First,  in  torrents  bleak  and  black, 

"Was  rushing  from  tlie  sky, 
When,  with  my  Second  at  his  back, 

Young  Oupid  wandered  by  : 
"  Now  take  me  in  ;  the  moon  hatli  passed , 

I  pray  ye,  take  me  in ! 
The  lightnings  flash,  the  hail  falls  fast, 
All  Hades  rides  the  thunder-blast ; 

I'm  dripping  to  the  skin!" 

"I  know  thee  well,  thy  songs  and  sighs; 

A  wicked  god  thou  art. 
And  yet  most  welcome  to  the  eyes, 

Most  witching  to  the  heart!" 
The  wanderer  prayed  another  prayer, 

And  shook  his  drooping  wing ; 
The  lover  bade  him  enter  there, 
And  wrung  my  First  from  out  his  hair, 

And  dried  my  Second's  string. 

And  therefore — (so  the  urchin  swore. 

By  Styx,  the  fearful  river. 
And  by  the  shafts  his  quiver  bore, 

And  by  his  shining  quiver), 


CHAKADE.  377 

That  Lover  aye  shall  see  my  whole 

la  Life's  tempestuous  Heaven ; 
And  when  the  lightnings  cease  to  roll, 
Shall  fix  thereon  his  dreaming  soul 

In  the  deep  calm  of  even ! 


VI. 

The  Indian  lover  hurst 

From  his  lone  cot  by  night ; — 
"When  Love  hath  lit  my  First, 
In  hearts  by  Passion  nursed, 

Oh !  who  shall  quench  the  light? 

The  Indian  left  the  shore ; 

He  heard  the  niglit  wind  sing, 
And  cursed  the  tardy  oar, 
And  wished  that  he  could  soar 

Upon  my  Second's  wing. 

The  blast  came  cold  and  damp, 
But,  all  the  voyage  through, 
I  lent  my  lingering  lamp, 
As  o'er  the  marshy  swamp 
He  paddled  his  canoe. 


37S  ENIGMA. 

VII. 

ENIGMA. 

In  other  days,  when  hope  was  bright, 
Ye  spake  to  me  of  love  and  light, 
Of  endless  spring,  and  cloudless  weather, 
And  hearts  that  doted  linked  together ! 

But  now  ye  teU  another  tale, — 
That  life  is  brief,  and  beauty  frail. 
That  joy  is  dead,  and  fondness  blighted, 
And  hearts  that  doted  disunited ! 

Away!  ye  grieve  and  ye  rejoice 
In  one  unfelt,  unfeeling  voice  ; 
And  ye,  like  every  friend  below, 
Are  hollow  in  your  joy  and  woe ! 


VIII. 

Alas  !  for  that  forgotten  day 
"When  Chivalry  was  nourished, 

"When  none  but  friars  learned  to  pray, 
And  beef  and  beauty  flourished ! 

And  fraud  in  kings  was  held  accursed, 
And  falsehood  sin  was  reckoned, 


CHARADE.  379 

Aiid  mighty  chargers  bore  my  First, 
And  fat  monks  wore  ray  Second! 

Oh,  then  I  carried  sword  and  shield. 

And  casque  with  flaunting  feather. 
And  earned  my  spurs  in  battle-field, 

In  winter  and  rough  weather ; 
And  polished  many  a  sonnet  up 

To  ladies'  eyes  and  tresses, 
And  learned  to  drain  my  father's  cup, 

And  loose  my  falcon's  jesses: 

How  grand  was  I  in  olden  days ! 

How  gilded  o'er  with  glory! 
The  happy  mark  of  ladies'  praise, 

The  theme  of  minstrel's  story  : 
Unmoved  by  fearful  accidents. 

All  hardships  stoutly  spur'ning, 
I  laughed  to  scorn  the  elements — 

And  chiefly  those  of  Learning. 

Such  things  have  vanished  like  a  dream  ; 

The  mongrel  mob  grows  prouder  ; 
And  every  thing  is  done  by  steam, 

And  men  are  killed  by  powder ; 
I  feel,  alas !  my  fame  decay ; 

I  give  unheeded  orders, 
And  rot  in  palti-y  state  away, 

With  Sheriifs  and  Recorders. 


380  CHAKADE. 


IX. 


My  First's  an  airy  thing, 

Joying  in  its  flowers, 
Evermore  wandering 

In  Fancy's  bowers ; 
Living  on  beauteous  smiles 

From  eyes  that  glisten^ 
And  telling  of  Love's  wilea 

To  ears  that  listen. 

But  if,  in  its  first  flush 

Of  warm  emotion, 
Mj  Second  come  to  crush 

Its  young  devotion, 
Oh  !  then  it  wastes  away, 

"Weeping  and  waking, 
And  on  some  sunny  day, 

Is  blest  in  breaking:. 


CHAKADE.  381 


X. 

On  the  casement  frame  the  wind  beat  high, 
Never  a  star  was  in  the  sky ; 
All  Kenneth  Hold  was  wrapt  in  gloom, 
And  Sir  Everard  slept  in  the  Haunted  Eoom. 

I  sat  and  sang  beside  his  bed ; 
Never  a  single  word  I  said, 

Yet  did  I  scare  his  slumber ; 
And  a  fitful  light  in  his  eye-ball  glistened, 
And  his  cheek  grew  pale  as  he  lay  and  listened, 
For  he  thought,  or  he  dreamed,  that  fiends  and 

fays 
Were  reckoning  o'er  his  fleeting  days, 

And  telling  out  their  number. 
"Was  it  my  Second's  ceaseless  tone? 
On  my  Second's  hand  he  laid  his  own : 
The  hand  that  trembled  in  his  grasp 
Was  crushed  by  his  convulsive  clasp. 

Sir  Everard  did  not  fear  my  First ; 

He  had  seen  it  in  shapes  that  men  deem  worst, 

In  many  a  field  and  flood  ; 
Yet,  in  the  darkness  of  that  dread, 
His  tongue  was  parched,  and  his  reason  fled  ; 


382  CHAKADE. 

And  lie  watclied  as  the  lamp  burned  low  and 

dim, 
To  see  some  Phantom,  gaunt  and  grim, 

Gome,  dabbled  o'er  with  blood. 

Sir  Everard  kneeled,  and  strove  to  pray; 
He  prayed  for  light,  and  he  prayed  for  day, 

Till  terror  checked  his  prayer ; 
And  ever  I  muttered,  clear  and  well, 
"  Click,  click,"  like  a  tolling  bell. 
Till,  bound  by  Fancy's  magic  spell. 

Sir  Everard  fainted  there. 

And  oft,  from  that  remembered  night. 
Around  the  taper's  flickering  light 

The  wrinkled  beldames  told, 
Sir  Everard  had  knowledge  won 
Of  many  a  murder  darkly  done, 
Of  fearful  sights  and  fearful  sounds, 
And  Ghosts  that  walk  their  midnight  rounds 

In  the  Tower  of  Kenneth  Hold  1 

riS22.) 


CHAHADE.  383 


XI. 

The  canvas  rattled  on  the  mast, 

As  rose  the  swelling  sail ; 
And  gallantly  the  vessel  passed 

Before  the  cheering  gale ; 
And  on  my  First  Sir  Florico  stood, 

As  the  far  shore  faded  now, 
And  looked  upon  the  lengthening  flood 

With  a  pale  and  pensive  brow  : 
"  "When  I  shall  bear  thy  silken  glove 

Where  the  proudest  Moslem  flee, 
My  lady  love,  my  lady  love, 

Oh,  waste  one  thought  on  me  !" 

Sir  Florice  lay  in  a  dungeon  cell, 

With  none  to  soothe  or  save; 
And  high  above  his  chamber  fell 

The  echo  of  the  wave  ; 
But  still  lie  struck  my  Second  there, 

And  bade  its  tones  renew 
Those  hours  when  every  hue  was  fair, 

And  every  Iiope  was  true  : — 
*'  If  still  your  angel  footsteps  move. 

Where  mine  may  never  be, 


384  CHARADE. 

My  lady  love,  my  lady  love, 
Oh,  dream  one  dream  of  mel" 

Not  long  the  Christian  captive  pined  !- 

My  Whole  was  round  his  neck ; 
A  sadder  necklace  ne'er  was  twined, 

So  white  a  skin  to  deck ; 
Queen  Folly  ne'er  was  yet  content 

With  gems  or  golden  store, 
But  he  who  wears  this  ornament, 

Will  rarely  sigh  for  more  ; — 
"My  spirit  to  the  Heaven  above, 

My  body  to  the  sea. 
My  heart  to  thee,  my  lady  love, 

Oh,  weep  one  tear  for  me  I" 


OHASADE.  386 


XII. 

Row  on,  row  on  ! — The  First  may  liglit 
My  shallop  o'er  the  wave  to-niglit ; 
But  she  will  hide  in  a  little  while, 
The  lustre  of  her  silent  smile  ; 
For  fickle  she  is,  and  changeful  still. 
As  a  madman's  wish,  or  a  woman's  will. 

Eow  on,  row  on ! — The  Second  is  high 
In  my  own  bright  lady's  balcony ; 
And  she  beside  it,  pale  and  mute — 
Untold  her  beads,  untouched  her  lute — 
Is  wondering  why  her  lover's  skiflf 
So  slowly  glides  to  the  lonely  cliff. 

Row  on,  row  on ! — When  the  Whole  is  fled. 
The  song  will  be  hushed,  and  the  rapture  dead  ; 
And  I  must  go  in  my  grief  again 
To  the  toils  of  day,  and  the  haunts  of  men, 
To  a  future  of  fear,  and  a  present  of  care, 
And  memory's  dream  of  the  things  that  were. 
YoL.  2.-25 


386  CHAJEADE. 


XIII. 


One  day  my  First  young  Cupid  made 

In  Vulcan's  Lemnian  cell, 
For  ala^ !  he  has  learned  his  father's  trade, 

As  many  have  found  too  well ; 
He  worked  not  the  work  with  golden  twine, 

He  wreathed  it  not  with  flowers, 
He  left  the  metal  to  rust  in  the  mine. 

The  roses  to  fade  in  the  bowers: 
He  forged  my  First  of  looks  and  sighs, 

Of  painful  doubts  and  fears, 
Of  passionate  hopes  and  memories. 

Of  eloquent  smiles  and  tears. 

My  Second  was  born  a  wayward  thing, 

Like  others  of  his  name, 
With  a  fancy  as  light  as  the  gossamer's  wing. 

And  a  spirit  as  hot  as  flame, 
And  apt  to  trifle  time  away, 

And  rather  fool  than  knave, 
And  either  very  gravely  gay. 

Or  very  gayly  grave  ; 
And  far  too  weak,  and  far  too  wild. 

And  far  too  free  of  thought. 
To  rend  what  Venus'  laughing  child 

On  Vulcan's  anvil  wrought. 


OHARADPl  387 

And  alas!  as  he  led,  that  festive  night, 

His  mistress  down  the  stair, 
And  felt,  by  the  flambeau's  flickering  light, 

That  she  was  very  fair, 
He  did  not  guess — as  they  paused  to  hear 

How  music's  dying  tone 
Came  mournfully  to  the  distant  ear, 

"With  a  magic  all  its  own — 
That  the  archer  god,  to  thrall  his  soul, 

"Was  lingering  in  the  porch. 
Disguised  that  evening,  like  my  Whole, 

"With  a  sooty  face  and  torch. 


XIV. 

"When  Ralph  by  holy  hands  was  tied 

For  life  to  blooming  Cis, 
Sir  Thrifty  too  drove  home  his  bride, 

A  fashionable  Miss, 
That  day,  my  First,  with  jovial  sound, 

Proclaimed  the  happy  tale, 
And  drunk  was  all  the  country  round 

With  pleasure — or  with  ale. 


388  CHAEADE. 

Oh,  why  should  Hymen  ever  blight 

The  roses  Oupid  wore  ? — 
Or  why  should  it  be  ever  night 

Where  it  was  day  before  ? — 
Or  why  should  women  have  a  tongue, 

Or  why  should  it  be  cursed, 
In  being,  like  my  vSecond,  long, 

And  louder  than  my  First  ? 

"You blackguard!"  cries  the  rural  wench. 

My  lady  screams,  "Ah,  bete!" 
And  Lady  Thrifty  scolds  in  French, 

And  Cis  in  Billingsgate ; 
Till  both  their  Lords  my  Second  try, 

To  end  connubial  strife — 
Sir  Thrifty  hath  the  means  to  die, 

And  Ralph — to  beat  his  wife ! 


XV. 

Lord  Roland  by  the  gay  torchlight 

Held  revel  in  his  hall ; 
He  broached  ray  First,  that  jovial  knight. 

And  pledged  his  vassals  tall; 
The  red  stream  went  from  wood  to  can, 

And  then  from  can  to  mouth. 


CHARADE.  389 

• 
And  the  deuce  a  man  knew  how  it  ran, 

Nor  heeded,  north  or  south : 
"Let  the  health  go  wide,"  Lord  Ronald  cried, 

As  he  saw  tlie  river  flow — 
"  One  cup  to-night  to  the  noblest  Bride, 

And  one  to  the  stoutest  foe!" 

Lord  Ronald  kneeled,  when  the  morning  carac. 

Low  iu  his  mistress'  bower ; 
And  she  gave  him  my  Second,  that  beauteous 
dame, 

For  a  spell  in  danger's  hour : 
Her  silver  shears  were  not  at  hand  ; 

And  she  smiled  a  playful  smile. 
As  she  cleft  it  Avith  her  lover's  brand, 

And  grew  not  pale  the  wlule :     ^ 
And  "Ride,  and  ride,"  Lord  Ronald  cried. 

As  he  kissed  its  auburn  glow ; 
"  For  he  that  woos  the  noblest  Bride 

Must  beard  tlie  stoutest  Foe!" 

Lord  Ronald  stood,  when  the  day  slione  fair. 

In  his  garb  of  glittering  mail ; 
And  marked  how  my  Whole   was  crumbling 
there 

With  the  battle's  iron  hail : 
The  bastion  and  the  battlement 

On  many  a  craven  crown. 
Like  rocks  from  some  huge  mountain  rent, 


390  CHARADE. 

• 
Were  trembling  darkly  down : 

"  Whate'er  betide,"  Lord  Ronald  cried, 
As  he  bade  Ms  trumpets  blow — 

"I  shall  win  to-day  the  noblest  Bride, 
Or  fall  by  the  stoutest  Foe !" 


XVI. 

I  GRAOKD  Don  Pedro's  revelry, 

All  dressed  in  fire  and  feather, 
When  loveliness  aad  chivalry 

Were  met  to  feast  together. 
He  flung  the  slave  who  moved  the  lid, 

A  purse  of  maravedis ; 
And  this  that  gallant  Spaniard  did, 

For  me  and  for  the  ladies. 

He  vowed  a  vow,  that  noble  knight, 

Before  he  went  to  table, 
To  make  his  only  sport  the  fight, 

His  only  couch  the  stable, 
Till  he  had  dragged,  as  he  was  bid, 

Five  score  of  Turks  to  Cadiz ; — 
And  this  that  gallant  Spaniard  did, 

For  me  and  for  the  ladies. 


3 


CHARADE.  391 

To  ride  through  mountains,  where  my  First 

A  banquet  -vvould  be  reckoned  ; 
Through  deserts,  where  to  quench  their  tliirst 

Men  vainly  turn  mj^  Second. 
To  leave  the  gates  of  fair  Madrid, 

To  dare  the  gates  of  Hades; — 
And  this  that  gallant  Spaniard  did, 

For  me  and  for  the  ladies. 


XVII. 

t\K  talked  of  daggers  and  of  darts. 

Of  passions  and  of  pains, 
Of  weeping  eyes  and  wounded  hearts, 

Of  kisses  and  of  cliuiiis; 
He  said,  though  love  was  kin  to  grief. 

She  was  not  born  to  grieve ; 
He  said,  though  many  rued  belief, 

She  safely  might  believe ; 
But  still  the  lady  shook  her  head, 

And  swore,  by  yea  and  nay, 
My  Whole  was  all  that  he  had  said, 

And  all  that  he  could  say. 


392  CHAKADE. 

He  said,  my  First — whose  silent  car 

Was  slowly  wandering  by, 
Veiled  in  a  vapour  faint  and  far 

Through  the  uufathomed  sky — 
"Was  like  the  smile  whose  rosy  light 

Across  her  young  lips  passed, 
Yet  oh !  it  was  not  half  so  bright, 

It  changed  not  half  so  fast ; 
But  still  the  lady  shook  her  head. 

And  swore,  by  yea  and  nay, 
My  Whole  was  all  that  he  had  said, 

And  all  that  he  could  say. 

And  then  he  set  a  cypress  wreath 

Upon  his  raven  hair. 
And  drew  his  rapier  from  its  sheath, 

Which  made  the  lady  stare ; 
And  said,  his  life-blood's  purple  flow 

My  Second  there  should  dim, 
If  she  he  served  and  worshipped  so 

Would  only  weep  for  him ; 
But  still  the  lady  shook  her  head. 

And  swore,  by  yea  and  nay, 
My  Whole  was  all  that  he  had  said, 

And  all  that  he  could  say. 


CHAEADE.  393 


XVIII. 

UisroouTH  was  I  of  face  and  form, 

But  strong  to  blast  and  blight, 
By  pestilence  and  tbuuder-storm. 

By  famine  and  by  figlit ; 
I  pierced  the  rivets  of  the  mail, 

I  maimed  the  war-steed's  hoof, 
I  bade  the  yellow  harvest  fail, 
And  sent  the  blast  to  rend  the  sail, 

And  the  bolt^to  rend  the  roof. 

Within  my  Second's  dark  recess 

In  silent  pomp  I  dwelt, 
Before  the  mouth  in  lowliness 

My  rude  adorers  knelt ; 
'Twas  a  fearful  place ;  a  pile  of  stones 

Stood  for  its  stately  door ; 
Its  music  was  of  sighs  and  groans, 
And  the  torch-light  fell  on  human  hones 

Unburied  on  the  floor  1 

The  chieftain,  ere  his  band  he  led. 
Came  thither  with  his  prayer ; 

The  boatman,  ere  his  sail  he  spread, 
"Watched  for  an  omen  there ; 


394:  CHAKADE, 

And  ever  the  slu-iek  rang  loud  within, 

And  ever  the  red  blood  ran, 
And  amid  the  sin  and  smoke  and  din 
I  sate  with  a  changeless,  endless  grin, 
Forging  my  First  for  Man ! 

My  priests  are  rotting  in  their  grave, 

My  shrine  is  silent  now ; 
There  is  no  victim  in  my  cave, 

No  crown  upon  my  brow ; 
Nothing  is  left  but  dust  and  clay 

Of  all  that  was  divine ; 
My  name  and  my  memory  pass  away, 
But  dawn  and  dusk  of  one  fair  day 

Are  called  by  mortals  mii*e. 


XIX. 

My  First  to-night  in  young  Haidee 

Is  so  surpassing  fair, 
That,  though  my  Second  precious  be. 

It  shows  all  faded  there ; 
And  let  my  "Whole  be  never  twined 

To  shame  those  beaming  charms, 
A  richer  one  she  cannot  find 

Than  fond  Affection's  arms. 

(1826.) 


CHAEADE.  305 


XX. 

Ke  who  can  make  my  First  to  roll 
Wlien  not  a  breath  is  blowing, 

May  very  slightly  tnrn  my  Whole 
To  set  a  mountain  going. 

He  who  can  curb  my  Second's  will 
When  she's  inclined  for  roving, 

May  tnrn  my  Whole  more  slightly  still 
To  cure  the  moon  of  moving ! 


XXL 

Ac  ROUS  my  First,  with  flash  and  roar, 

Tlie  stately  vessel  glides  alone; 
And  silent  on  the  crowded  shore 

There  kneels  an  aged  crone, 
Watching  my  Second's  parting  smile 
As  he  looks  farewell  to  his  native  isle. 

My  Whole  comes  back  to  other  eyes 

With  beauteous  change  of  fruits  and  flowers ; 

But  black  to  her  are  those  bright  skies, 
And  sad  those  joyous  bowers; 

Alas !  my  First  is  dark  and  deep. 

And  my  Second  cannot  hear  her  weep ! 


396  CHAKADE. 


XXIL 

SiE  Eustace  goes  to  the  far  Crusade 

In  radiant  armour  dressed ; 
And  my  First  is  graven  on  his  blade, 

And  broidered  on  his  breast. 

And  a  flush  is  on  his  cheek  and  brow, 

And  a  fever  in  his  blood. 
As  he  stands  upon  my  Second  now, 

And  gazes  on  the  flood. 

Away,  away! — the  canvas  drives 
Like  a  sea-bird's  rustling  wing ; 

^j  Whole  bath  a  score  of  Moslem  lives 
Upon  its  twanging  string. 


CHAEADE.  397 


xxm. 

My  First  came  forth  in  booted  state, 

For  far  Valencia  bound  ; 
And  smiled  to  feel  ray  Second's  -weight, 

And  hear  its  creaking  sound. 

"  And  here's  a  jailer  sweet,"  quoth  he, 
"  You  cannot  bribe  or  cozen ; 

To  keep  one  ward  in  custody, 
Wise  men  will  forge  a  dozen," 

But  daybreak  saw  a  lady  ride 

My  Whole  across  the  plain, 
With  a  handsome  cavalier  beside, 

To  hold  her  bridle-rein : 

And  "Blessing  on  the  bonds,"  quoth  he, 
"  Which  wrinlded  age  imposes. 

If  woman  must  your  prisoner  be. 
Your  chain  should  be  of  roses." 


398  CHAHADE. 


xxiy. 

Oh  yes !  her  childhood  hath  been  nursed 

In  all  the  follies  of  my  First; 

And  why   doth   she   turn   from   the   glittering 

throng, 
From  the  Courtier's  jest,  and  the  Minstrel's  song  ? 

Why  doth  she  look  where  the  ripples  play 
Around  my  Second  in  yon  fair  hay, 
"While  the  boat  in  the  twilight  nears  the  shore, 
"With  her  speechless  crew,  and  her  mufBed  oar? 

Hath  she  not  heard  in  her  lonely  bower 
My  Whole's  fond  tale  of  magic  power? 
Softer  and  sweeter  that  music  flows 
Than  the  Bulbul's  hymn  to  the  midnight  rose. 


CHARADE.  39y 


XXV. 

My  First,  that  was  so  fresh  and  fair, 
Hath  faded — faded  from  thy  face ; 
And  pale  Decay  hath  left  no  trace 

Of  bloom  and  beauty  there. 

And  round  that  virgin  heart  of  thine 
My  Second  winds  his  cold  caress ; 
That  virgin  heart,  whose  tenderness 

"Was  Passion's  purest  shrine, 

Roses  are  springing  on  thy  clay ; 

And  there  my  "Whole,  oi)SCurely  bright, 
Still  shows  his  little  lamp  by  night. 

And  hides  it  still  by  day. 

Aptly  it  decks  that  cypress  bower, 
For  even  thus  thy  faith  was  proved, 
Most  clearly  seen,  most  fondly  loved, 

In  Sorrow's  darkest  hour. 


400  CHABADE. 


XXVI. 


When  my  First  flings  down  o'er  tower  and  town 

Its  sad  and  solemn  veil, 
When  the  tempests  sweep  o'er  the  angry  deep, 

And  the  stars  are  ghastly  pale, 
And  the  gaunt  wolves  howl  to  the  answering 
owl 

In  the  pause  of  the  fitful  gale, 

My  Second  will  come  to  his  ancient  home 

From  his  dark  and  narrow  hed ; 
His  warrior  heel  is  cased  in  steel. 

But  ye  cannot  bear  its  tread  ; 
And  the  beaming  brand  is  in  his  hand, 

But  ye  need  not  fear  the  dead. 

Through  battle  and  blast  his  bark  had  passed, 

O'er  many  a  stormy  tide  ; 
He  had  burst  in  twain  the  tyrant's  chain, 

He  had  won  the  beauteous  bride  ; 
From  the  field  of  fame  unscathed  he  came. 

And  by  my  Whole  he  died. 

(1827.) 


CHARADE.  401 


XXVII. 

Up,  up,  Lord  Raymond,  to  the  fight ! 

Gird  on  thy  bow  of  yew  1 
And  see  thy  javelin's  point  be  bright, 

Thy  falchion's  temper  true  ; 
For  over  the  hill  and  over  the  vale 
My  First  is  pouring  its  iron  hail. 

No  craven  he  !  yet  beaten  back 
From  the  field  of  death  he  fled  ; 

My  Second  yawned  upon  his  track, 
The  lion's  lonely  bed  ; 

He  smote  the  Monarch  in  his  lair, 

And  buried  his  rage  and  anguish  there. 

At  dawn  and  dusk  my  Whole  goes  forth 
On  the  ladder's  topmost  round  ; 

He  looks  to  the  south,  he  looks  to  the  north. 
He  bids  the  bugle  sound  ; 

But  many  a  cheerless  moon  must  wane, 

Ere  his  exiled  lord  return  again. 
Vol.  2—26 


402  CHABADE. 


XXVIII. 


Morning  is  beaming  o'er  brake  and  bower, 
Hark !  to  the  cMmes  from  yonder  tower, 
Call  ye  my  First  from  her  chamber  now, 
With  her  snowy  veil  and  her  jewelled  brow. 

Lo!  where  my  Second,  in  gallant  array, 
Leads  from  his  stable  her  beautiful  bay, 
Looking  for  her,  as  he  curvets  by. 
With  an  arching  neck  and  a  glancing  eye. 

Spread  is  the  banquet,  and  studied  the  song  ; 
Ranged  in  meet  order  the  menial  throng, 
Jerome  is  ready  with  book  and  stole, 
And  the  maidens  fling  flowers,  but  where  is 
my  Whole  ? 

Look  to  the  hill,  is  he  climbing  its  side  ? 
Look  to  the  stream — is  he  crossing  its  tide  ? 
Out  on  him,  false  one  !  he  comes  not  yet — 
Lady,  forget  him,  yea,  scorn  and  forget. 


CHARADE.  403 


XXIX. 

My  First  was  dark  o'er  earth  and  air, 

As  dark  as  she  could  be ; 
The  stars  that  gemmed  her  ebou  hair 

Were  only  two  or  three  ; . 
King  Cole  saw  twice  as  many  there 

As  you  or  I  could  see. 

"Away,  King  Cole!"  mine  hostess  said 

"  Flagon  and  flask  are  dry ; 
Your  nag  is  neighing  in  the  shed, 

For  he  knows  a  storm  is  nigh  :" 
She  set  my  Second  on  his  head, 

And  she  set  it  all  awry. 

He  stood  upright  upon  his  legs ; 

Long  life  to  good  King  Cole ! 
With  wine  and  cinnamon,  ale  and  eggs, 

He  filled  a  silver  bowl ; 
He  drained  the  draught  to  the  very  dregs, 

And  he  called  that  draught — my  Whole. 


404:  CHAP.ADE. 


XXX. 


Come  from  my  First,  ay.  come 

The  battle  dawn  is  nigh  ; 
And  the  screaming  trump  and  the  thundering 
drum 

Are  calling  thee  to  die ! 
Fight  as  thy  father  fought, 

Fall  as  thy  father  fell, 
Thy  task  is  taught,  thy  shroud  is  wrouglit ; 

So — forward  !  and  farewell ! 

Toll  ye,  my  Second !  toll  I 

Fling  high  the  flambeau's  light ; 
And  sing  the  liymn  for  a  parted  soul, 

Beneath  the  silent  night ! 
The  helm  upon  his  head, 

The  cross  upon  his  breast. 
Let  the  prayer  be  said,  and  the  tear  be  shed  : 

l^ow  take  him  to  his  rest ! 

Call  ye  my  Whole,  go,  call ! 

The  lord  of  lute  and  lay ; 
And  let  him  greet  the  sable  pall 

With  a  noble  song  to-day  ; 
Go,  call  him  by  his  name ; 

No  fitter  hand  may  crave 
To  light  the  flame  of  a  soldier's  fame 

On  the  turf  of  a  soldier's  grave. 

(1829.) 


405 


My  First,  in  its  usual  quiet  "way, 

"Was  creeping  along  on  a  wintry  day, 

When  a  minstrel  came  to  its  muddy  bed, 

With  a  barp  on  bis  shoulder,  a  wreath  on  bis 

bead ; 
And  "How  shall  I  cross,"  the  poor  bard  cried, 
"  To  the  cloisters  and  courts  on  the  other  side  V 

Old  Euclid  came;  he  frowned  a  frown; 
He  flung  the  harp  and  the  green  wreath  down  ; 
And  he  led  the  boy  with  a  stately  march 
To  my  Second's  neat  and  narrow  Arch  ; 
And  "  See,"  quoth  the  sage,  "bow  every  ass 
Over  the  sacred  stream  must  pass." 

The  youth  was  mournful,  the  youth  was  mute ; 
He  sighed  for  bis  laurel,  and  sobbed  for  his  lute ; 
The  youth  took  courage,  the  youth  took  snuff; 
He  followed  in  faith  his  teacher  gruif ; 
And  he  sits  ever  since  on  my  Whole's  kind  lap. 
In  a  silken  gown,  and  a  trencher  cap. 


iOQ  CHARADE. 


xxxn. 

An  aged  man,  with  locks  of  snow, 

Sits  o'er  his  glass  serenely  gay  ; 
Plain  Tom,  the  weaver,  long  ago, 

Sir  Thomas  Clover,  Knight,  to-day  : 
My  First  heside  his  grandsire  stands, 

A  comely  stripling,  stout  and  tall. 
The  future  lord  of  his  broad  lands, 

And  of  his  hospitable  hall. 

"  What  can  it  mean,  my  pretty  toy, 

"With  all  its  wheels,  and  threads,  and  springs?'' 
And,  as  he  speaks,  the  wondering  boy 

His  arms  around  his  grandsire  flings : 
He's  puzzled,  puzzled,  more  and  more  ; 

And  putting  on  a  look  of  thought, 
He  turns  my  Second  o'er  and  o'er, 

A  silver  model  deftly  wrought. 

The  good  Knight  hears  with  placid  smile, 

And  bids  him  in  tlie  plaything  view 
A  proud  memorial  of  the  toil 

By  which  his  grandsire's  fortunes  grew  : 
And  tells  them  this,  my  Whole,  shall  be 

StiU  handed  down  from  son  to  son, 
To  teach  them  by  what  industry 

Their  titles  and  their  lands  were  won. 


CHAKADE.  4.07 


xxxin. 

The  Palmer  comes  from  the  Holy  Land ; 
Scarce  on  my  First   can  the  Palmer  stand : 
The  Prior  will  take  the  air  to-day ; 
On  my  Second  the  Prior  trots  away : 
'Tis  pleasanter,  nnder  a  summer  sun, 
With  robes  to  ride,  than  with  rags  to  run. 

My  "Whole  leaped  out  of  the  road-side  ditch, 
With  "  Stand !"  to  the  poor  man,  and  "  Staml !' 

to  the  rich : 
From  the  Prior  he  strips  his  mantle  fair ; 
From  the  Palmer  he  wins  but  pity  and  prayer : 
'Tis  safer,  when  crime  is  prowling  wide, 
With  rags  to  run,  than  with  robes  to  ride. 


4:08  CHAJRADE. 


XXXIV. 

O'DoNOGHUE  came  to  the  hermit's  cell ; 

He  climbed  the  ladder,  he  pulled  the  bell ; 

"I  have  ridden,"  said  he,  "with  the  Saint  to 

dine 
On  his  richest  meat,  and  his  reddest  wine," 

The  Hermit  hasted  my  First  to  fill 

With  Avater  from  the  limpid  rill ; 

And  "Drink,"  quoth  he,  "of  the  juice,  brave 

Knight, 
Which  breeds  no  fever,  and  prompts  no  fight." 

The  Hermit  hasted  my  Second  to  spread 
With  stalks  of  lettuce  and  crusts  of  bread ; 
And  "  Taste,"  quoth  he,  "  of  the  cates,  fair  guest, 
Whicb  bring  no  surfeit,  and  break  no  rest." 

Hasty  and  hungry,  the  Chief  explored 
My  Whole  with  the  point  of  his  ready  sword, 
And  found,  as  yielded  the  latch  and  lock, 
A  pasty  of  Game  and  a  flagon  of  hock. 


CHABADE.  409 


XXXV. 


The  night  was  dark,  the  night  was  damp : 

St.  Bruno  read  hy  liis  lonely  lamp. 

The  Fiend  dropped  in  to  make  a  call, 

As  he  posted  away  to  a  fancy  hall ; 

And  "  Can't  I  find,"  said  the  Father  of  he?, 

"  Some  present  a  Saint  may  not  despise?" 

Wine  he  brought  him,  such  as  yet 

Was  ne'er  on  Pontiif 's  table  set : 

Weary  and  faint  was  the  holy  man. 

But  he  crossed  with  a  cross  the  Tempter's  can. 

And  saw,  ere  my  First  to  his  parched  lip  came, 

That  it  was  red  with  liquid  flame. 

Jewels  he  showed  him — many  a  gem 
Fit  for  a  Sultan's  diadem  : 
Dazzled,  I  trow,  was  the  anchorite : 
But  he  told  his  beads  with  all  his  might ; 
And  instead  cf  ray  Second,  so  rich  and  rare, 
A  pinch  of  worthless  dust  lay  there. 

A  Lady  at  last  he  handed  in. 

With  a  bright  black  eye  and  a  fair  white  skin : 

The  stern  ascetic  flung,  'tis  said, 

A  ponderous  missal  at  her  head : 

She  vanished  away ;  and  what  a  smell 

Of  my  Whole  she  left  in  the  hermit's  cell ! 


410  CHAKADE. 


XXXVI. 

Upon  my  First's  blue  stream 

The  moon's  cold  liglit  is  sleeping ; 
And  Marion  in  her  mournful  dream 

Is  wandering  there  and  weeping. 
"Where  is  my  "Whole? — this  hour 

His  boat  should  cleave  the  water ; 
He  is  a  Knight  of  pride  and  power, 

But  he  loves  the  Huntsman's  daughter. 

The  shroud  her  marriage  vest— 

The  stone  her  nuptial  pillow- 
So,  in  my  Second  let  her  rest, 

Beneath  the  grieving  willow. 
Where  is  my  Whole?— go,  Song, 

Go,  solemn  Song,  to  chide  him ; 
His  hall  lets  in  a  revelling  throng, 

And  a  gay  bride  smiles  beside  him  I 

(AcorsT,  1829.) 


CHARADE.  4  11 


XXXVII. 


He  hath  seen  tlie  tempest  lower : 

He  hath  dared  the  foeinaa's  spear; 
He  hath  welcomed  Death  on  tide  and  towe?; 

How  will  he  greet  him  here? 
My  First  was  set,  and  in  his  place 

You  might  see  the  dark  man  stand, 
With  a  fearful  vizor  on  his  face, 

And  a  bright  axe  in  his  hand. 

Short  shrift,  and  hurried  prayer : 

Now  bid  the  pale  priest  go ; 
And  let  my  Second  be  bound  and  bare 

To  meet  the  fatal  blow. 
The  dark  man  grinned  in  bitter  scorn ; 

And  yon  might  hear  him  say, 
"  It  was  black  as  jet  but  yestermorn, 

Whence  is  it  white  to-day?" 

"  Rise !  thou  art  pardoned  I" — vain ! 

Lift  up  the  lifeless  clay  ; 
On  the  skin  no  scratch,  on  the  steel  no  stain, — 

But  the  soul  hath  passed  away. 
The  dark  man  laid  his  bright  axe  by 

As  he  heard  the  tower  clock  chime ; 
And  he  thought  that  none  but  my  Whole  would 
die 

A  minute  before  the  time. 

(July,  1S29.) 


4i2  CHAEADE. 


XXXVIII. 

There  hangs  a  picture  in  an  ancient  ball : 
A  group  of  hunters  meeting  in  tlieir  joy- 
On  a  greeQ  lawn ;  the  gladdest  of  them  all 

Is  old  Sir  Geoffrey's  heir,  a  bright-eyed  boy. 
A  little  girl  has  heard  the  bugle  call, 

And  she  is  running  fi'om  her  task  or  toy 
To  whisper  caution  :  on  the  pony  bounds, 
And  see,  my  First  steals  off  before  the  hounds. 

There  is  another  picture ; — -that  wild  youtli 
Is  grown  to  manhood ;  by  the  great  salt  lake 

He  clasps  his  new  sword  on ;  and  gentle  Ruth 
Smiles,  smiles  and  sobs  as  if  her  heart  would 
break, 

And  talks  right  well  of  constancy  and  trutli, 
And  bids  him  keep  my  Second  for  her  sake, — 

A  precious  pledge  that,  wander  where  he  will. 

One  heart  will  think  and  dream  about  him  still. 

And  yet  another  picture ;  from  far  lauds 
The  truant  is  returned ;  but  ah,  his  bride, 

Sickness   hath    marred   her    beauty!    mute    he 
stands, 
Mute  in  the  darkened  chamber  by  her  side ; 


CHARADE. 


413 


And  brings  the  medicine,  sweetest  from  those 

hands, 
Still  whispering  hope  wliich  she  would  cheok 

or  cliidc. 
Doth  the  charmed  cup  rec.ill  the  fainting  soul 
E'en  from  Death's  grasp  1  oh !  blessings  on  my 

Whole  I 


(1381.) 


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